


Resurgence

by YaelWriter9



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Assassin Natasha Romanov, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Aunt Natasha Romanov, Avengers Family, Awesome Clint Barton, Awesome Natasha Romanov, Awesome Steve Rogers, Awesome Wanda Maximoff, BAMF Natasha Romanov, Canon Divergence - Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Clint Barton's Farm, Depression, Domestic Avengers, Flashbacks, Gen, Hurt Wanda Maximoff, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kid Wanda Maximoff, Natasha Romanov Has Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha Romanov Needs a Hug, Natasha Romanov-centric, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, POV Natasha Romanov, Panic Attacks, Past Abuse, Past Brainwashing, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Torture, Post-Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Red Room (Marvel), SHIELD Family, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Underage Drug Use, Underage Rape/Non-con, Undercover Missions, Wanda Maximoff Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:21:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25506619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YaelWriter9/pseuds/YaelWriter9
Summary: Her eyes snap open and fix Clint with a glare that he pointedly ignores, crossing the room to undo the ties.“What’s your name?”“I am the Red Viper.” Her voice is monotonous, devoid of any emotion. I think back to my first exchange with Clint. It is almost identical. Clint chuckles.“Yeah, and I’m Hawkeye. Your real name.”There is a beat of silence“You’re the Avengers.” she says instead. Clint nods in affirmation.“I want to speak to the Black Widow.”
Relationships: Avengers Team & Original Female Character(s), Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Clint Barton/Laura Barton, Laura Barton & Natasha Romanov, Natasha Romanov & Avengers Team, Natasha Romanov & Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanov & Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov, Wanda Maximoff & Natasha Romanov & Original Character(s), Wanda Maximoff & Original Character(s), Wanda Maximoff/Vision
Comments: 74
Kudos: 130





	1. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! Thank you for clicking on this! I would just like to say this work was inspired by the amazing CarlyWrites (If you haven't checked out her series you definitely should), so creds to her for getting my lazy ass to actually write something and also a massive thanks to her for reviewing this. Hope you enjoy, and a little warning that all my Russian is courtesy of google translate, so sorry to anyone who actually speaks the language.  
> Trigger warning for panic attacks.  
> Enjoy ;)

Mramor.Marble. The ceremony is necessary. Pain courses through my body,tearing me apart from the inside. I thought nothing could be worse than the flaying, I was wrong. This pain, this invasion, is worse than anything I have experienced. I clench my teeth, refusing to give any indication of my suffering. Showing pain makes you weak, Natalia. You have no place in the world.

“Nat!”

I jerk back violently, my vision snapping into focus. My bathroom swims into view. I steady myself against the sink, clenching the edges of the basin until my knuckles turn white. Clint is leaning against my doorframe, staring at me.

“You ok Tash?” he asks, eyes sweeping over me with concern.I nod, mentally scolding myself for my slip and allowing my usual apathetic mask to slip into place. I zip up my catsuit and make my way over to him. Clint catches my arm as I pass, forcing me to make eye contact.

“You don’t have to come on this mission, Nat,” he says seriously, “It’s only a recon, we’ll be fine without you.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m fine, Clint. Really,” I insist. “Let’s go, Sam and Wanda are probably waiting for us.”

It has been almost eight months since Ultron. I spent the aftermath with Steve, setting up the new Avengers’ compound and trying to mould the newest members into something resembling a team. I had buried myself in case files and paperwork, thrown myself into every available mission; in a desperate attempt to distract myself from the new torrent of nightmares waging war in my head. My lack of sleep is the reason Clint is here now, instead of at home with baby Nate, although he is claiming he just misses the field and wants some action.

Living with the other Avengers had only served as proof that I still wasn’t normal, no matter how desperately I pretended otherwise. Looking around, it was easy to see the difference. How the others don’t flinch whenever they are touched, don’t assess every possible escape route as soon as they enter the room and, as I found out after an awkward trip to the Met, consider one gun sufficient protection, instead of the two handguns, set of throwing knives, four Widow’s Bites, pair of batons and garrotte I had brought.

Steve says he doesn’t lie because your lies become a part of you, and then you can never escape them. It’s a childish sentiment, in my case, at least. I have been lying for so long it would be almost impossible to discern which parts of me are a lie and which are real, let alone extract them. I tell the world I’m an avenger, but really in essence I am nothing more than an assassin, a murderer. I’m a monster, and it’s futile to pretend anything else.

* * *

The halls are suspiciously deserted as Clint and I sneak towards the labs. It is a simple data recon, retrieving the formulas for an illegal experiment on human DNA, but even so, this is suspiciously easy. We haven’t encountered a single guard so far, even as we scaled the perimeter fence.

“Uh, guys, you’re gonna want to see this.” Sam’s voice comes in over the comms.

We meet him in the security office, where he was meant to be disabling alarms. Instead, he is staring intently at one of the screens, his face illuminated eerily in the fluorescent light. He beckons us over and points at the footage.

My eyes flicker over them. Beside me, I hear Clint suck in a breath. The footage from the labs shows ten scientists, all with a bullet in the forehead. Somebody else is here for the formulas. We switch the footage over to the corridors, only to be met with about thirty guards unconscious or dead. That would explain why it was so empty. I check the alarm system, it has already been disabled. Whoever this is, they are not messing around. I scan the screens again. I begin to think the thief has already left the compound and we are too late, but then a shadow flits across one. I follow their movements intently, watching as they come into view on the nearest screen. Surprisingly, it is only one person, rather than a team. She has her back to the camera, the only thing I can see is a mass of long curly hair and the back of a simple combat suit.As she rounds the corner, I catch sight of a logo on her arm.

“Stop!” I command, leaning closer and zooming in. Recognition flashes through me and dread pools in my stomach. This cannot be right. It is impossible. No. I lurch backwards.

“Tasha?” Clint squints, trying to make out the logo for himself. “What is it?”

“The logo on her suit,” I mumble, inhaling shakily. “That’s the Red Room’s logo.”

Sam and Wanda look confused, Clint is shaking his head in disbelief, though there is dawning apprehension on his face.

“It can’t be.”

“It is,” I insist. There’s no mistaking it, the image burned into my mind after all these years, the image I had to salute and submit to every day of my childhood. But it can’t be. We shut the Red Room down years ago, with SHIELD. How can it be back? Was that even real? I’m not sure anymore, but if it was some elaborate test, I definitely failed. I remember killing them. Pulling the trigger and watching as the bullets embedded themselves in their skulls. Bad, Natalia. So bad.

“What should we do?” Wanda asks, “She will compromise mission.”

Clint tries to catch my eye. I shift uneasily, already knowing what is coming. He has never been able to resist the belief that everyone deserves another chance. On the Red Room mission, he was ready to adopt every girl in the facility. The handlers didn’t give him that chance. That is probably what is playing on his conscience now. Wanting to save one in place of the eighty he couldn’t.

“We should bring her in.”

My mind swirls with anxiety at the thought of bringing a part of the past I had tried so hard tobury back to the compound, the closest thing I have to a home, but I nod in affirmation. He did it for me.

“Wait, who exactly is this chick?” Sam is staring between me and Clint. This is the moment I have been dreading. When they finally realise what I am.

“We think she is from the Red Room. It’s the same organisation that took Nat when she was a kid.”

And there it is. The other boot coming to stamp down on me. Wanda’s eyes go wide.

“ So the vision, what I showed you, that was,” she trails off.

I nod, looking away.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” I hate how shaky my voice sounds.

“Look, I hate to interrupt, but if we don’t move she’s gonna make off with the files.”

I shake myself. I need to pull it together.

“Right,” I nod. “Let’s go.”

We send Sam and Wanda on ahead. Clint climbs into the vents and cocks an arrow, ready for her arrival. Forty-one seconds later, a crash followed by a shout of pain crackles on the comms. A dull thud follows it, and then the static hiss of a comm dying.

“Falcon, Scarlet Witch, what’s your position?”

“Scarlet Witch is down.” comes the reply. “Target is almost at location.”

I drop into a defensive stance and listen for the tell-tale sound of footsteps. Thirteen seconds. She rounds the corner, gun drawn and fires two shots at my head. I duck them , spinning on the floor to knock out her legs. She dodges, but is knocked off balance, so I come up and throw a punch. She blocks me, then retaliates with a kick to the head. I duck, only to be met with a blow to the stomach. There is no doubt in my mind now that this girl belongs to the Red Room. Her style is far too similar to mine, and far too precise to be anything else. I land another hit, and she sends an elbow to my ribs, before grabbing my arm and trying to flip me. I lean into the motion, before yanking away at the last second, sending her to the ground. She squirms as I pin her legs, grabbing her arms with my other hand. I nod my head slightly, then spring back as an arrow shoots though the air, embedding itself in her shoulder.Angrily, she yanks it out and gets to her feet, but she is already swaying, and will be out within ten seconds. She seems to realise this too, drawing a knife and hurling it in Clint’s direction as her legs give way and she falls to the ground.

* * *

Clint is sitting opposite the girl in the holding cell. She is restrained to the bed, but it would probably take her less than five minutes to break free if she wanted. I stand with the rest of the team behind the glass. They are not-so-subtly whispering behind their hands, probably swapping rumours. Aside from Clint, Steve, as team leader, is the only one who knows what they did to me.

I turn my attention back to the cell. The girl has been awake for the last five minutes, although she is doing a good job of replicating the patterns of REM sleep.

“I know you’re awake,” Clint smirks.

Her eyes snap open and fix Clint with a glare that he pointedly ignores, crossing the room to undo the ties.

“What’s your name?”

“I am the Red Viper.” Her voice is monotonous, devoid of any emotion. I think back to my first exchange with Clint. It is almost identical. Clint chuckles.

“Yeah, and I’m Hawkeye. Your real name.”

There is a beat of silence.

“You’re the Avengers.” she says instead. Clint nods in affirmation.

“I want to speak to the Black Widow.” I feel everyone’s heads swivel towards me as Clint comes out of the cell. I take a steadying breath, and stride in, every inch the Black Widow. No emotion. No weakness. I sit down opposite her.

“Polagayu, priyatno nakonets vstretit’ togo, iz kotorogo ya byl sleplen,” _I suppose it is nice to finally meet the one I was moulded from._ She quirks her lip; the action is so familiar it gives me whiplash.

“Vsegda periyatno vstretit’ fanata,” _Always nice to meet a fan,_ I quip back. The Russian feels strange on my tongue, I only ever use it for missions now. For most of the team, this is probably the first indication that I am anything other than American.

We take a moment to sit back, each of us assessing the other. She is not like most Red Room recruits. I am not even sure she is Russian, originally at least, although the KGB had been known to take in foreign girls, in order to widen their operating theatre. Her skin is a dark tan, and coupled with mossy eyes and a head full of dark ringlets. Probably Middle Eastern or North African then, I muse. Blood has congealed on the left side of her forehead from where I punched her.

“My zaplatili tsenu pole togo,” _We paid the price after you left,_ she says abruptly, her voice low. “Starshiye devochki skazali mne. I snova, kogda vy prishli unichtozhit' nas. Ya videl, chto vy sdelali s devushkami na ob yekte.” _The older girls told me. And again when you tried to destroy us. I saw what you did to the girls at the facility._

“That was the Red Room,” I grit out. Girls lying dead, chained to their beds. Bullets in their heads. Every one in dead centre. Perfection.

She laughs humourlessly. “My mozhem pritvorit'sya, yesli khochesh', no ty monstr, kak i ya.” _We can pretend, if you would like, but you’re a monster, just like me._ Bile spurts into my throat. I choke it back down. I stagger away from her, fumbling for the door, ignoring the team’s stares. Escape. I need to run. To hide. It is all I know how to do, all I have ever done. Ignore the problem until it is impossible, then run from the world and crawl back a few months later.

* * *

Somehow, I am sitting on my bed, staring blankly at the wall. I tug on my necklace, the arrow from Clint, calming slightly at the feeling of the delicate chain coiled around my finger. It was a promise, Clint told me.

"I will always be your partner, Tash. Forever."

"Always."

That will change now, with this girl, contaminating the only real home I have ever had.

There is a knock on my door, and a second later Steve sits down on my bed. We sit in silence for a while.

“She is staying.” I raise an eyebrow. “Clint wants her to stay. Most of the team supported him.” That surprises me. I guess it means they haven't been told what the Red Room does, otherwise they wouldn’t want her here. Or me, come to that.

“What about you?”

“I don’t know. She’s fourteen, Nat. I just-” He cuts himself off. “She’s a kid. And I keep imagining you, at that age and- I think she deserves this. But if you aren’t comfortable with it, we can make other arrangements. She could go live with Clint’s family or,”

“Steve,” I cut him off. It is inevitable. I can’t hide for ever. All fantasies must come to an end. “She should stay.”


	2. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the second chapter! I have already finished the third, so it will hopefully be up soon.  
> Side note: for anyone wondering how to pronounce Ksenia, try putting it into Russian on google translate and pressing the speech button.  
> Please enjoy, and any comments are greatly appreciated :)

I quickly braid back my hair and change into the clothes Hawkeye provided for me. I think they belong to the witch - Wanda- as I cannot imagine the Black Widow in any sort of dress outside of missions. The A.I system softly announces dinner is ready and guides me down a modern passage to the living room, where I am faced with the entirety of the Avengers sprawled over various couches and bickering over pizza.  
A hush sweeps over them as I enter and I try to ignore the slight blush staining my cheeks as I beeline towards the nearest box and grab a slice. Hawkeye abandons his post by the garlic bread, which is promptly snatched up by another avenger and guides me to a chair in the corner, hastily naming various team members on the way. Most give me a quick wave, unable to completely hide their reservations. Captain America, much to my unease, shakes my hand heartily and invites me to sit next to him before I can back away. I perch on the edge of the couch, warily surveying the room, and take a bite of the pizza. It is good, unlike anything I have had before. It is a stark contrast to the simple borscht and bland soups of the Red Room.  
“Pepperoni, good choice.” I start, embarrassed at being caught unawares. “Thank God you’re not another one of those gourmet pizza nuts,” Hawkeye continues, “ appreciating the simple things in life.”  
I don’t know what he means, but nod anyway.  
“You never did tell me what your name was, you know,” he tells me. Somehow, between my confrontation with the Widow and subsequent release from the holding cell, the subject got dropped. I consider lying, but find I can’t muster the energy to think of a suitable alternative.  
“Ksenia Petrovna Antonova.”  
“Well, welcome to the team, Ksenia.”  
He extends a hand, which I shake, trying not to grimace at the butchered pronunciation. I have a feeling that’s going to get old quickly.

I consider telling him, but decide against it. It is not my place to correct a superior. However, he seems to pick up on my dilemma and makes a face.

"I'm sorry, my Russian sucks. Nat tried to teach me, but," he trails off. 

“It is fine,” I assure him.

“No, you should teach me how to say it properly.”

“Ks-en-ia” I speak slowly and emphatically.

“Kuh-zen-ia?” he tries. It is even worse than his first attempt.

“Not really,” I wrinkle my nose, “You pronounce the first syllable like one letter, like an X.”

“Zeni-uh?” he sounds hopeful. I shake my head.

“No, the sound X, not Z. And the last part is more like yuh than i-uh. Ksenia.”

“K-senyuh” I don’t know whether to laugh or sigh at his mangled attempts.

“It’ll do,” I tell him.

For the remainder of the meal, I observe the interactions between the others. Most seem relatively at ease, although there is noticeable tension in the room that is largely ignored, probably down to my presence. More than once, I note furtive glances being cast not only at me, but at the Widow as well, who has curled up in a solitary corner with her pizza.  
Once they begin to disperse, I hover uncertainly, unsure whether or not they’ll take me back to my cell.  
“There is a spare room next to Wanda.”  
It is the Black Widow. She doesn’t look at me as she leads me through the compound.  
“We’re going to take you shopping tomorrow.”  
“We?”  
“Wanda and me. Clint says it will be like Mean Girls.” Clint. Hawkeye, I realise. She rolls her eyes, and once again I am left in the dark. Wryly, I think that the Red Room’s culture lessons are not nearly as thorough as they think they are. We stop in front of a door. Widow opens it and ushers me inside, before it snaps shut behind me.  
For a moment, I am plunged into darkness. I flick the switch. The room is minimalistic and startlingly white, matching the rest of the compound, save Wanda’s room which had been cosy, with trinkets scattered around. This room is bland in comparison. Over dinner, Steve had told me I was allowed to decorate however I wanted. I sit down on the large bed, surveying the bare walls and coming to the realisation I have no idea how to go about this.  
My room is the same size and layout as Wanda’s and I am tempted to copy her, but lots of her relics appear homemade, and I know any attempt at arts and crafts will end in tears or, more likely, murder. I feel iron bands of anxiety begin to tighten around my chest. They expect me to know how to do this. To be able to look into a store and pick out furniture. My breaths become faster. That is what normal people do. I squeeze my eyes shut and hug my arms around myself. I am not normal. I am special. For the first twelve years of my life, I believed this without hesitation. Until I realised what it is code for. Murderer. Tool. Unbreakable. I slide off the bed onto the floor. I don’t know what I want. Only real people get opinions. I burrow my head deeper between my knees. This is pathetic. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I am the Red Viper, the Red Room’s most effective asset. After the Black Widow. Their original toy. We were always second to her in our masters’ minds, never able to fill her shoes. That is why they changed my codename. They said I was undeserving of her title. Despite this, I still lived in her shadow. And now, I mean it literally.  
They will never keep me once they know how inferior I am to her. I force my self to uncurl and stand up. I can do this. I have taken down opponents double my size without breaking a sweat; I can figure out how to decorate a bedroom. Come on, Ksenia. Think. My eye lands on the bed. It has a solid wooden headboard, with nowhere to attach handcuffs. I have not even been supplied with any. I can buy a metal bed, handcuffs will not be hard to procure. I take a deep breath and exhale shakily. Everything will be fine. The bare walls leave few places to keep weapons. A wall hanging would provide an ideal hiding place. Satisfied with my decor ideas, I lie back down on the bed, raising my right arm above my head. Without the cold metal of the cuff on my wrist, I cannot get comfortable, and resign myself to a sleepless night.

* * *

  
I study the wall opposite me intently. I have been waiting for Black Widow and Wanda for the past twenty minutes, and we are not due to leave for another ten. Nobody else had been awake when I ventured from my room at five this morning. After a little exploration, I had discovered a training room where I sequestered myself for the rest of the morning. Three hours later, I was dripping with sweat and shaking with exhaustion, with two impossibly long hours dragging out before me. One unsuccessful attempt to find a library and an awkward confrontation with Captain America’s painfully amiable smile later, and I was standing alone in the corridor at a loss for what to do.  
The sound of a car horn pulls me from my thoughts. I hurry outside and clamber into the back of the waiting Corvette, letting my thoughts wander as we pull out onto the highway.  
When I first graduated the Red Room, my new handler had sent me to buy clothes for a mission. The town near the facility had only one clothes shop, manned by a lone pimply teenager. He had stared dumbly at me as I efficiently selected a few tops and skirts. My cover for the mission, Aviva Grobglas, daughter of an Israeli diplomat, had been going through a Gothic phase at the time. The entire ordeal had taken less than a quarter of an hour.  
This efficiency is nowhere to be found as I am faced with the towering four storey mall. Hundreds of stores line the either side of the walkway, selling everything from sneakers to pet accessories. The same sense of panic from last night begins to rise in me, but I swallow it, trying to drown out the persistent voice in my head urging me to run. Wanda seems to have no such qualms, her eyes filling with excitement as she drags us towards the nearest shop, Anthropologie.  
Two hours later, our arms are loaded with bags. I can barely fathom the sheer amount of clothes Wanda has coerced me into buying. It would be enough to supply my entire class in the Red Room, and probably the class below as well. I am currently sat beside Black Widow, as Wanda tries things on in the dressing rooms. She is supposedly checking messages on her phone, but her fingers haven’t so much as twitched for the past five minutes. The tension is palpable and after five more minutes uncomfortable silence, I can bear it no longer.  
“I’m sorry you had to come shopping.” This seems like the right thing to say, she has been distant and distracted all morning. I illicit no response.  
“Thank you for taking me, I have enjoyed it.” Lie. We had not shopped for furniture as I had anticipated, apparently there is yet another store for this purpose. Clothes shopping had proved much more difficult. I was presented with an endless array of clothes suitable for combat and concealing weapons, and no way of knowing how to narrow it down from there, which the Avengers would think best.  
“You had me fooled,” Widows snaps. Perhaps she would prefer honesty. It seems ironic, considering her profession.  
“It is difficult, I don’t know what I like.” She nods her head in acknowledgment at my struggling confession. I clench my hands into fists to hide their trembling. I just admitted weakness. Weakness will not be tolerated.  
“When I defected, it was hard for me at first. Clint helped. It felt like he was always picking up the pieces for me in the beginning.” I freeze, astounded by her openness, the undisguised emotion in her eyes. This is not how the Black Widow is supposed to act. She is the model assassin, literally, we were modelled in her image, she is supposed to be detached, unfeeling. An uncomfortable silence lingers. I am unsure of how to react.  
“And now he gets to do it all over again.” I try for humour, although my stomach churns at what must sound like a pathetic plea for help. Instantly, I know I made the wrong decision. She jumps to her feet and turns on me, eyes blazing. I tense, ready for an attack. I know I can’t win. I should just take the blows, then at least the Avengers might let me go instead of killing me.  
“Lucky you, maybe this time he won’t get screwed over.” Her voice cracks. She whirls around and stalks away, leaving me alone on the bench.

As soon as we get back to the compound, Widow darts towards her room. Clint takes one look at her before hurrying after, making it inside just as the door slams shut. There is no doubt in my mind that I have to get out of here, before she can tell the rest of the team what I did. However, my plans are thwarted when Wanda and I are met by Captain America and Falcon, demanding to see our purchases and peppering us with inane questions about our outing. It is a setback, which adds to the anxiety clouding my usually razor sharp focus, but I force it down once again.  
Escape is still feasible. I have not been to America much, but I reckon that if I leave soon, I could be on a flight to Europe in the next couple of hours. By tomorrow, I could have a new identity. Hair dye and straighteners can go a long way. I think this will buy me enough time to get a safe house under a fake lease and disappear.  
At long last, the three avengers leave, and I head to my room. I pack a few pairs of jeans and some sweaters from the vast collection in a backpack before taking the vents to the armoury. This is a risky choice, I know. I am wasting time I do not have to spare, but they took my weapons yesterday and leaving defenceless is suicide.  
Quickly, I take some handguns and spare ammo clips, and am justing pausing to grab a nice looking set of knives when the vent rattles behind me. I have been made.

I spin around, cocking one of the guns. This is going to get messy. I only hope that when death comes, it is somewhat merciful , though I have done nothing to deserve it. Clint stands before me, his hands in the air. I hesitate; this will be my downfall.  
“Ksenia,” he speaks slowly, “it’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”  
I shake my head desperately. He is lying.  
“Nyet- I mean no!” It sounds more like a plea. He takes a step towards me. The gun trembles in my hand. My masters would be horrified at my incompetency.  
“Please. Take a deep breath, come on. Ksenia.”  
Something clicks in my head. The way he stumbles over my name. The awkward trip as he pronounces the K and S like two separate syllables. I try to mirror his breaths. You can’t run if you can’t breathe.  
“That’s it. Good. Now, do you want to tell me what’s going on?”  
“I am leaving. I know she told you what happened.”  
His face clouds with confusion.  
“At the mall? Nat didn’t mean what she said. She feels really bad.”  
It is my turn to stare in confusion. What is he talking about?  
“No, what I did. I tried to make a joke. It wasn’t funny.”  
“So you’re trying to run away?” He is incredulous. “Ksenia, what the fuck do you think this is? We’re not going to kill you for making one bad joke. This isn’t some kind of test. We just thought you deserved a fresh start. Hell, if you were killed for making bad jokes, I never would’ve lived long enough to join the Avengers.”  
I can’t help it, I smirk. Clint lets out a sigh.  
“Listen, if you want to leave, I’m not going to stop you. But I promise no-one’s mad. Can you give it another shot?”  
I hesitate, then nod. Clint smiles, though his posture stays slumped, exhausted.  
“Great. Let’s get you back upstairs.”


	3. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back with chapter 3!  
> Thank you so much to everyone who has left kudos or subscribed to this work, it really motivates me to keep going. I hope you like this chapter, please comment if you have any comments or feedback ;)

I sit numbly on the floor of the shower, letting icy water run in rivers down my back. In the Red Room, they sent me outside to stand in the snow when I upset my masters. Sometimes, they left me out for days at a time, in just my leotard. Other girls would die from the exposure; I was special. Suddenly, I cannot stand the cold water any longer, recoiling so fast, I slam my head into the wall. I shove the handle as far as it goes in the opposite direction. Scalding water pummels down on me. I gasp, but quickly snap my mouth shut. Unbreakable. My hands and feet have turned bright red. I shut off the water and wrap myself in one of the waiting fluffy towels. They are ridiculous, so soft they are more like blankets than towels.  
I dry myself, then dress in some of the sweats Wanda chose for me. They are an inconspicuous navy, thank God, instead of the bright red she had chosen for herself. I head over to the mirror and start braiding my hair, unruly even whilst dripping wet. In the Red Room, my hair and complexion had been a frequent source of ridicule for the other blonde haired, fairer girls. Even among those I considered sisters, I had no place. I pull each strand taught before braiding it, trying to smooth out the curls. I repetitive motion is soothing, and clears my head a little. Clint repeatedly reassured me I was fine, safe, but I am still not entirely convinced they will not come for me in the night after my episode with Widow. For punishment at the very least. How else will they control me, keep me in my place?  
Cold water trickles down my neck as I finish off the braid and pin it into place. There is a knock at my door. It opens to reveal Captain America, dressed in workout clothes and looking slightly embarrassed.  
“Um, hi.” He is uncomfortable, I should put him at ease. I try to flash a smile similar to his own, but I think it looks more like a grimace.  
“Can I help you?”  
“Uh, yeah, I was wondering if you wanted to come train with me. You don’t have to-”  
“No, that is a good idea, I will change.”  
The training room is large and spacious. It is different to the one I had been using, which had been in a secluded area of the compound, and was more like a dance studio, with only a few mats and punching bags. That had been sufficient for me; this one is filled with equipment I don’t recognise. I am going to look stupid, and Captain America will see how hopeless I am. They will cast me out like a broken toy, maybe even have me put down like some old three legged dog. My heart begins to beat faster. Black Widow would know how to work this equipment. I am utterly useless.  
No. Stoy, _stop_ , Ksenia. This can’t happen now, not here. Get it together. I force air into my lungs. It chokes me, but eventually my breathing evens out. Captain America spots me and waves me over.  
“ We can start wherever you want," he tells me. I stay quiet.  
“We could go to the shooting range,” he suggests, “Nat finds it relaxing.”  
I am beginning to tire of the constant comparison to her, although it is fair, we were forged of the same material. But I know I will never measure up, I was made from the scraps she left behind.  
Captain America hands me a gun. I prefer knives, they are more reliable, more elegant, but I don’t say anything. He takes one for himself. I am surprised to see his stance is slightly off. He fires three rounds. They skim the edge of the bullseye.  
“I don’t use guns very often,” he admits. I nod, I have seen pictures of him with his shield.  
“I’m sure you’re much better than me.” I flash a grin in reply, and relax my muscles. I place my left hand under my right, steadying myself, and fire. The bullets embed themselves in the bullseye. Only one hits the centre, the other two veer slightly to the right. I duck my head in shame, waiting for the rebuke.  
“Pretty good.” He claps me on the shoulder. “I had a feeling you were something special.”  
I think I am going to be sick. You’re a special one, Ksenia.  
“Do you want to spar?” My mind feels numb.  
“Whatever you want, Ma- Captain.”  
He frowns, and I backpedal, trying to figure out what I have done wrong. He must have noticed my slip, I almost called him master. Clint told me I can’t do that here, we are equals. That is a fallacy. I curse myself for my mistake and tense, waiting for the blow.

Captain America freezes. His eyes widen and his expression morphs into horror. That is not right.  
“Wait, no. Ksenia, I didn’t mean to scare you.” I am so confused. Why is everything wrong? Why isn’t he punishing me?  
“You’re not in trouble. It’s just, you don’t have to call me Captain. We’re not in the field. Steve is fine.” I nod, taking note in my mind. No codenames while training.  
“Sorry, Steve,” I amend. He smiles and steps onto the mats.  
“Ready to spar?”  
I take my place opposite him, grateful for the change in subject, and drop into a defensive stance. Finally, something familiar. He makes the first move. I block him but the force is so strong I am still thrown backwards. I recover quickly, and lunge towards him, as if trying to sweep out his legs. He crouches slightly, anticipating my movement. At the last second, I leap into the air, bringing my knee down onto the back of his neck and sending him to the floor. The fight continues, and I let myself disconnect, years of training taking over. Dodge, kick, block, back handspring. It is freeing, the feeling of being just a body, pure instinct, coiled muscles and power. I feel lighter than I have in weeks. Roll over his back, knee to the stomach. A foot collides with my ribcage. I fall back. Suddenly, I see my opportunity. His left arm hangs by his side, unprotected. I lunge.  
“Ksenia, stop!”  
My legs lock up. A fist collides with my head. I hurtle backwards, crashing into the perimeter ropes and crumpling to the floor.

* * *

  
Somebody is calling my name. They are saying it wrong; I want to correct them, but my brain won’t cooperate. I blink sluggishly. I know that voice. It is a friend, I think. No, that can’t be right. My temple is throbbing. Shakily, I reach up to touch it. I think there is blood. Groaning, I try to sit up. The world swings sideways on its axis. Before I can stop myself, bile spurts into my mouth. I manage to turn to the side, and avoid vomiting on myself. There are two figures crouched in front of me. I try not to think about the beating I’m surely about to receive. One of the men reaches out a hand. I flinch away.  
“Sorry,” a voice rumbles, softer than I thought possible. “I won’t try to touch you again, okay?” My vision is still hazy. I blink, trying to clear it. The figures are Clint and Capt- no, Steve. We are on the floor of the gym, a puddle of vomit next to me. I groan again.  
“What happened?”  
“I hit you.” Steve’s voice is ridden with guilt. I frown, trying to figure out why.  
“It was my fault,” Clint chips in, “I thought you were going to break Steve’s elbow, so I yelled at you to stop and,” he gestures to me and then to the vomit.  
The memories begin to trickle back in. I was going to break Steve’s elbow, he’d left it exposed. Was I not meant to do that?  
“I’m sorry,” I mumble. They exchange a look. I cannot say anything right.   
“You don’t have to be sorry.” I shake my head, the movement sends me reeling.  
“This was punishment. I will not fail again, I’m sorry.”  
“Ksenia, this wasn’t a punishment. It was an accident, not your fault. Can you stand? We should take you to the medical wing, you probably have a concussion.”  
I freeze mid-way to pulling myself up. No hospital, please. I can’t go back there. Stabbing pain courses through. A bloodied metal rod is on the floor next to me. They were too late. So much blood, everywhere. I can’t go back, ever. Not again, please.  
“I am fine, I do not need medical,” I say stiffly. To my relief, neither man pushes.  
“Okay,” Clint agrees. “Do you feel up to visiting Tony then? He wants to see us.”

  
I sit in Tony Stark’s office. Steve is behind a desk, looking at something on a tablet with a woman I do not recognise. Her strawberry blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she pinches the bridge of her nose as they swipe through things. I watch her warily. I do not know who she is, she is an unforeseen variable. Variables are dangerous.  
Clint is standing next to me, dabbing my head with an antiseptic cloth. He tapes the wound shut with gauze and hands me an ice pack, instructing me to keep it there for ten minutes. I nod my acquiescence as the woman walks briskly towards us.”  
“How’re we doing?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “You must be Ksenia, I’m Pepper, Tony’s girlfriend and full-time babysitter.”  
“Hey, I resent that!” Stark calls from across the room. She smiles conspiratorially at me.  
“It’s nice to have another woman around the compound, God knows we need a break from all that testosterone.” I smile weakly.  
“Well, if you two are quite done insulting us,” Stark huffs, “we need to get this meeting started. Where’s Natashalie, she’s meant to be coming.”  
Clint clears his throat. “I think she’s busy with data management or something.” Stark seems unconvinced. It is a very strange answer. Can’t she just hand that over to another Avenger? Oh. Realisation dawns on me. It is because of me. She doesn’t want to be around me. I feel like crawling into a corner and hiding for the next year. Stark sighs as if this is the biggest inconvenience of his life. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.  
“Looks like we’ll have to start without her then. We’ve got a serious problem.”  
Pepper swipes something up on her tablet. It appears in the middle of the room. It is a news article. At the top is a picture of me, Wanda and Black Widow at the mall. Underneath is the headline, “Newest Avenger? Here’s what we know so far.” She wipes to the next article. “Black Widow and Scarlet Witch spotted with mysterious individual. Sources say this could be a new Avenger.” The next has a video clip of the three of us trying on sunglasses and pulling stupid faces. It reads, “New Avenger on the block? We reveal who she is and where she came from.”  
My heart jumps into my throat. What do they know about me? How did they find out? I’m sure I have plenty of enemies, but I can’t imagine any of them are in a position to be talking to the press.  
“They don’t know anything yet,” Stark assures us, “but rumours are flying around, and not all of them in our favour. We need to do something before someone realises she’s basically Spidey 2.0. It doesn’t help that she’s here illegally either.”  
I hadn’t even thought of that. I don’t have legal citizenship to any country. If I get deported, where will I go?  
“We can get her papers,” Clint dismisses. “The real issue here is what happens if her identity is leaked. She’s got hits on her back, she needs protection.” Ice fills my veins. I clench my fists to stop them from shaking. I am so screwed. I might have only graduated a year ago, but there are already people who would like to see me dead, not least the Red Room, who are no doubt already tracking me. Their job had just become a whole lot easier.  
Pepper glances at Steve, asking permission. I brace myself. This is it. The moment they say I am too much hassle. Not worth the trouble. It was inevitable, of course. I was naive to hope that it would last.  
“We can issue a statement, confirm she is a part of the Avengers. That way, she will not only have our protection, but President Ellis’s as well.”  
I furrow my brow. I don’t understand. I am a liability, they cannot keep me.  
And yet, they are publicly supporting me, protecting me. There is an unexpected glow in my chest. I am part of their team. They are helping me, even though they owe me nothing. Maybe they even want me here. No. I shut that idea down hard. You are a murderer, Ksenia, nobody could want you. Nevertheless, I can’t help but feel a trickle of hope, like a sliver of sunshine on my face as Clint and Steve nod in agreement, and Pepper sets to work on her tablet.


	4. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry I haven't updated in so long, I've been crazy busy going back to school and all. I've gone back to Nat's POV for this chapter, but I'm not super pleased with it so will probably be making edits. I've got loads of plot lines planned for Ksenia, but everything is still a bit up in the air for Nat, so if there's anything you want to see, just let me know.  
> Thank you to everyone who left kudos or commented. Also cannot believe we have our first user subscriptions, its crazy!  
> Hope you enjoy, and please leave a comment! ;))

I sit curled on my bed, book in hand. I am re-reading Brave New World, this time in Bengali, as I have not had much opportunity to practice recently. This translation is laughable, I am considering whether I should write to the publishing company and tell them so. Beside me, a message pings on my phone. I ignore it, it is probably Clint. Ever since my joining of Instagram, Cooper and Lila's doing on my last visit to the farm, he has been plaguing me with Great British Bakeoff posts. His love for cooking shows continues to baffle me, as his skills just about stretch to scrambled eggs. My phone buzzes again. I roll my eyes and turn the page of my book. If I have to look at one more clip of a contestant having a breakdown over their soggy meringues, I will block him.The screen flashes for a third time. I abandon my book and grab my phone. It could be Cap, I sent him to spar with Ksenia. She hasn't been sleeping since she arrived, I thought she could use a distraction. I scan my notifications. A new message has been posted to the Avengers' Twitter account:

To those it concerns,

We understand there has been much speculation over the past few days as to there being a new Avenger. We are pleased to lay these rumours to rest and officially welcome Ksenia Antonova, the Red Viper, to the team. She has an exceptional skill set that adds great value to the group, and we are thrilled to have her with us. She is committed to our cause and continuing to help protect the planet.

-The Avengers

I snort. This was definitely Steve's doing, it sounds like one of his infamous pre-battle pep talks. Maybe a little too much for twitter, but the message is going viral. It already has over 2000 retweets. I scroll through the comments. At the moment, the public's reaction is mostly positive, but there is always time for that to change once the politicians get involved. I wonder why Steve posted the statement, we discussed it last night and agreed it was better to keep her identity a secret.

Clint bursts into my room and flings himself unceremoniously onto the bed.

"That was a nightmare."

"The statement on Twitter?" I'm confused. Even for him, that seems a bit dramatic.

"You saw it already then? Yeah, someone leaked pictures of you at the mall. The press was on a warpath." I nod. Either way, they could have at least changed her name. Clint rolls onto his side, rubbing his thumb and index finger together like he is feeling for a bowstring. I frown.

"Something happened."

"What? Why would you say that?" He squirms under my gaze. I sigh. Ten years of friendship, and he has learnt nothing.

"You know, you really are an awful liar, considering you used to be a spy."

"Can't get anything past you," he teases, nudging me in the ribs. "There was an accident. Ksenia tried to break Cap's arm, I yelled at her and Steve knocked her out. Accidentally. She's fine."

I pull away from him.

"What? How could you let that happen?'

"I don't know, I guess she just lost control for a minute," He rubs his temple.

"Don't be an ass Clint," I snap." That’s not what I meant. You know that's not how we- she, learned to spar. You should have told her."

"I'm sorry, Nat." I look away, my anger dissipating. As always, I can't stay mad at him. It is my fault, really, I should have been the one to talk to her. Instead, I have been hiding in my room, like some petulant teenager.

"It's fine, I'm not mad." He nudges my shoulder, and I shove him back lightly.

"So, whatcha reading?"

"Brave New World. This translation is trash though."

"You know, I bet Ksenia speaks whatever language that is if you need someone to practice with."

"Maybe." I look away. I couldn't asker , even if I wanted to. She is not just another Widow, in some twisted way, still my sister. She is a direct result of my success. Because of me, another generation of girls have had their families, their childhoods ripped away from them. If I had failed, maybe they wouldn't have restarted the program. But I never fail. And because of me, more children have suffered. All because I let myself have the fleeting idea that I was something more than a weapon.

"Nat?” Clint is gently waving his hand in front of my face. I blink rapidly, trying to orientate myself. “You with me?”

“Yeah.” I hook one finger around my necklace and tug. Ever since she arrived, I have been losing time more frequently. It has to stop. I can be better than this.

“What’s going on? Are you avoiding her or something?”

“Or something,” I reply cryptically.The deflection is painfully obvious, and Clint doesn’t buy it for a second. I twist the chain around my finger and study it intensely. He gives me an unimpressed look.  
“It’s not about me,” I sigh in frustration. “Why would she want to talk to me, Clint? To be anywhere near me? What happened to her is my fault.” Shameful tears prickle in my eyes. Furiously, I blink them away.

“Nat,” Clint says softly, reaching out to grab my hand. After ten years, this is the only touch I can bring myself to tolerate. Even from my best friend. If that doesn’t serve as proof that the Red Room succeeded in creating a monster, I don’t know what does.

“Clint, drop it. Please? I just want to go.”

* * *

As the quinjet pulls into the farm, I feel some of the tension in my stomach release. In early May, the fields are bathed in late afternoon sunlight, and bees are still humming among the wildflowers. Dappled light bounces off the roof of the house. Nate’s toys are scattered over the porch, a skipping rope hangs off the picket fence. I allow myself to relax a fraction more. This is home.

“Auntie Nat!” Lila bounds out of the house and flings herself into my arms. I sweep her up and swing her around.

“What, no hug for your dad?” Clint mimes plunging a dagger into his heart and twisting it. Lila giggles and lets him scoop her up. Laura emerges into the sunlight, Cooper in tow. “Clint,” she smiles, leaning in to peck him on the lips. Behind her, Cooper groans and makes fake vomiting noises.  
“Hey, I heard that! Tash, it’s been way too long,” she turns to me sternly.

“Missing me so soon?” I laugh.

“It’s been forever,” Lila pouts dramatically. “You haven’t even seen my Coppelia costume. I'm playing Swanhilda.”

“I’d love to see it now,” I appease her. “That’s a great role, I’m so proud of you, sweetie.”

* * *

After dinner, I settle in beside Laura. She is bouncing Nate on her lap, but hands him over to me once I sit down. He coos happily, gripping my fingers tightly and using them to pull himself ups he is standing on my thighs. Opposite us, Clint is regaling Cooper once again with the tale of Budapest.  
“There were hundreds of people blocking our way, so we had to break in through the vents and-”

“That’s nothing like what happened,” I interrupt, “I swear, did you even come on that mission?”

“You and I remember Budapest very differently, Nat,” he smirks, laughing when I huff at his idiocy.

Budapest was one of our first missions, only a couple of months after I defected. Fury had sent us to investigate claims of someone building an army of clones in a disused lab outside the city. We ended up in a dank, dripping warehouse, surrounded by three hundred cloned soldiers. When we stumbled outside an hour later, dripping with some unnamed sludge, covered in smears of blood and grime, we looked like a scene out of one of Maria Hill’s horror films. We could not have been more at odds with the mellow glow of the early sunrise. Clint had wiped away some slime from his forehead, saying that if he tried hard enough, he could pretend it was ice cream. I was forced to admit that never, in my sixteen years, could I remember having eaten ice cream. So Clint, aghast, dragged me into the city, declaring it our mission to find an open ice cream parlour before daylight. We brought new meaning to the term “blown cover” that morning, traipsing through Budapest in full combat gear, covered in blood and rubble. By the time we found somewhere willing to serve us, we were two hours late for extraction, much to Coulson’s chagrin. Nevertheless, Clint deemed the operation a success, and the photo of us covered in debris and holding ice cream cones adorned our walls for many years. To this day, he insists this was the real Budapest mission, clones long forgotten.

Next to me, Laura is laughing. Feet patter down the stairs. Lila dances into the room, in full costume and twirls around on the rug. “See, Auntie Nat, I told you I was playing Swanhilda.”

“You look great, Li,” I smile.

“Mom says I should show you my part now, in case you can’t come see me perform.” I nod seriously.  
She assumes position by the fireplace, one leg extended in front of her, her arms resting in _bras bas_. She skips forward, waving to an imaginary crowd, and turns into a series of short leaps. Her brow is furrowed in concentration, trying to imagine the music in her head. She brings her arms to third position, then springs onto a _pas de chat_ , almost toppling into a coffee table. “There’s more room at the studio,” she explains crossly, resuming position for a series of _piqué_ turns. Her foot catches on the corner of the rug, and she tumbles out of the second turn. She tries again, but falls out of the third. She drops her arms and huffs in annoyance. I fight back a smile; she has clearly inherited Clint’s hot temper.

“Can I help?” I ask, ignoring Clint’s surprised glance. “You need to keep your shoulders down in your turns. It’s pulling your weight forward and making you fall. Try like this.” I gently prod her spine, so she straightens her shoulders reflexively. She tries again, face lighting up as she finishes the series with a flourish.

“Thanks,” she grins happily, “how did you know what to do?” I freeze at the innocent question. My mind drifts to how I learnt the same routine she is performing now. A burning rod administered to each offending shoulder. Weeping sores sticking to our tunics. New skin being ripped off as we changed into our leotards. “I took lessons when I was younger,” I tell her.

“At your boarding school?” Cooper interjects.

“That’s what it was for, actually. It was a special school. They picked us from all over the country and brought us there to learn ballet.” It is mostly true, in essence.

“What did-”

“That’s enough,” Laura cuts Cooper off. “Time for bed.”

* * *

“Nat? Natasha?” I swallow. The room is empty, except for me and Clint. There is something cool in my hands. I look down, and see I am holding a beer. I don’t remember getting it.

“There you are,” Clint nudges me.

“Sorry, just got lost in my thoughts for a second.” I clear my throat nervously and take a sip of my beer. I can’t believe I drifted again. My grip on the bottle tightens. Clint carefully pries it away from me.

“I’m sorry,” I can’t look at him. “I should be able to, I mean, it’s been years.” I stare at my hands. I thought I was getting better. I had been better, until Ultron. But even then, it has been months. I should be fine.

“You went through hell there, Tash. It’s okay not to be fine.” I shake my head.

”I was made better than this.”

“You weren’t made, Tash. You’re no-one’s weapon. You’re Natasha, Auntie Nat, my best friend.”  
That’s a lie. Ultron proved I’ll never be more than what they made me to be.

“How do you know?”

“How could I not? You’re my partner, Nat. Forever.”

“Always.”


	5. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm, backkkk.  
> I'm posting this at like 2 am so if it isn't my best work, I apologise in advance.  
> Hope you enjoy, and please leave a comment if you have any thoughts, good or bad.  
> Trigger Warning for panic attacks

Wanda and I sit side by side at the kitchen island, buried in schoolwork.  Clint and Black Widow left for Clint's farm a few days ago.  The night after their departure, I found a pair of handcuffs and a book, Brave New World, in Bengali, sitting on my bed.  The translation was rubbish, but I still finished it in two nights, and the handcuffs finally granted me more than three hours sleep per night.  Much to my surprise, with the compound quieter, Wanda has begun to seek me out for company, thankfully harbouring no ill will against me for knocking her out when they brought me in. It has not been as bad as I initially feared, she is quieter and more relaxed than I imagined.

The schoolwork is a recent addition to my routine.  It became immediately clear that while I could hack any government server in the world and speak seventeen languages, there were some basic aspects of education that I was missing.  Leaving me here, staring at the same math problem for the last ten minutes, and praying that the answer will miraculously appear in my mind.  I sneak a glance at Wanda’s nearly completed worksheet.  It is on irregular Spanish verbs.  I want to bang my head against the counter top.  I could speak flawless Spanish by the time I was five, and yet I have been defeated by some supposedly simple quadratic equations.

Wearily, I drop my eyes back to my own work.  Think, Ksenia. Every highschooler in America can do this.  It is simple.

I am unsure of the situation in which this will be useful.  The Red Room taught me enough to pass as a well educated citizen.  Perhaps if I went undercover as a math teacher, but that doesn’t seem very likely.  There would be other team members better suited to that role, although I could do it if ordered.  It is not my place to question.

Beside me, Wanda is getting restless.  She gives me a sly glance.

“If we finish early today, nobody will notice,” she comments.  I frown.

“We were ordered to complete these assignments.”

“Yes, but it is Friday. We could do them another time, it’s almost the weekend.”

Disobey a direct command. Leave an assignment incomplete.  The very idea makes me feel sick.  I can barely comprehend the notion, and yet Wanda seems so blasé.  Perhaps this is yet another thing wrong with me.  I dismiss that idea out of hand.  Follow orders. The most basic rule.  Do what is asked of you, and you will be left alone.  No-one will come to your room at night.  No-one will punish you.

No. Lie. There are always punishments, regardless.  Because I am not good enough.  I will never be enough. My thoughts begin to swirl, pulling me in.  I must complete my assignment.  If I cannot, I have no purpose.  I am useless. The pen feels slippery beneath my fingers.  I fumble, trying to get it to cooperate.

“Let’s go and watch TV.” Wanda.  Was that an order? Steve gave us the work, don’t his orders override hers?  Is she even my superior? No. Stupid, Ksenia.  Bad thought. Of course she is.  You are their tool. You do not question.  Opposing currents are tugging me away.  Follow orders or complete my assignment.  I cannot do both. This is a test.  I never fail. Unbreakable. At the moment, I think I might just crack.

I feel my breaths become shorter and more laboured.  The pen drops to the floor as I dig my nails into the flesh of my arms.

“We can stay if you want,” Wanda has noticed my distress, and is trying desperately to placate me. No. Weak. Never show your weaknesses, Ksenia.  Her eyes flash red.

I flinch. I have to get away.  She can’t see me like this. I slide off my stool and try to stand up, but my legs give way. I curl up under the counter.  A blurry figure enters my peripheral vision.  I did bad. Weak. My fingers rake through my hair, undoing my regulation braid.  Someone crouches down in front of me.  I try to shy away, but they grab my hands and place something gently in them.  My fingers move jerkily over the soft corduroy fabric. The aroma of lavender emanates from it.  I hug it closer to me, the weight and heat providing some comfort.

“It’s okay, you’re doing good,” a voice coaches. “Breathe with me.”

That’s an order. I feel my panic dissipate slightly. I can follow an order. The figure takes an exaggerated breath, which I try to mimic. I force my lungs to expand, then contract. Slowly,  I remove my head from my arms.  A blur of red hair is backing away.  Black Widow stands in front of me, Wanda next to her, eyes red rimmed and fearful.  Great. I choke down the panic still thrumming in my chest.  Get it together, this is humiliating. I take another deep breath, collecting my wits. Shakily, I pull myself up. I realise I am still hugging the bean bag.  Briefly, my eyes flicker to my math sheet.  It is covered in jagged Cyrillic that looks like a toddler wrote it.  Ne somnevaysya, _do not question_. I did that. So little control.  I burn with shame. 

By the time I look back, Widow is gone. I do not call out to her as her hair whips around the corner. She can't get far enough away from me. Wanda clears her throat awkwardly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” she trails off, eyes drifting to my ruined math sheet.

“I am sorry. It was my fault. It was weak, won’t happen again.” Wanda winces.  Yet again, I have said the wrong thing.

“It’s okay, don’t worry, it happens to everyone” she grimaces.  “We should take our break now. Natasha’s orders.”

I curl up in the corner of the couch while Wanda flicks through Netflix.  Thankfully, she doesn’t ask for my opinion as she settles on Brooklyn 99.  The number of shows on here is ridiculous, I don’t know how anyone ever decides what to watch.  I stare blankly at the screen as the theme music blares.

I observe the interactions on the show with interest. The detectives don't seem to show any submission towards the Captain, and yet he doesn't punish them. He is their superior, but they have full conversations as if they were equals. Is that what Steve and Black Widow expect from me? If it is, I will definitely have to do some more research into how to play that part. Because that is all it would be. Just another role for me to slip into.

Soon, the episode is finished and another is queued up.  I make sure to look alert and interested as Wanda’s eyes flicker over to me.

“Are you enjoying it?” I nod enthusiastically.  Wanda seems pleased with my answer.

“Who’s your favourite?” I freeze, wracking my brains. I had been taking mental notes on the dynamics between the characters, and trying to apply them to the team, but I had not been paying much attention to the actual show.

“Gina?” Hopefully, it doesn’t sound too much like a question.  It works, and Wanda grins.

“Yeah, she’s cool,” she smiles in agreement, “ Holt’s my favourite though.” I think back to the episode we just watched.  Holt is the captain.

“Yas, queen,” I deadpan, snapping my fingers.  A beat of silence passes. Wanda snorts with laughter and I smile back nervously.

“That was,” she gasps for breath, face flushed red, “amazing!  You gotta teach me how to do that!” Hesitantly, I nod.  If she wants me to teach her impressions, that means she doesn’t think I’ll be gone soon.  Logically, then, the Avengers aren't planning to throw me out immediately.  The notion relaxes me more than it should.  I shouldn't need them. I don’t need them.  You can rely on nobody but yourself.

* * *

Somebody raps on my door. It is something I am yet to adjust to, having people wait for permission before entering my room.  It is strange, but nice, I think.

“Come in,” I call out. Clint pushes the door open.

“Hey,” I stand to greet him.

“Just wanted to let you know the others have gone out, so it’s just me and you. You can join me if you want.”

I nod,l my heart falling at the subtext.  I do not know why I am surprised, it has been almost three days since he got back from the farm.  But for some reason, I thought he was different.  Obediently, I follow Clint into the lounge, I don’t allow my step to falter, even as I see him sprawled on the couch.  You are unbreakable.

He glances up. “You ready?”

I nod. I am unable to feel anything but resignation as I quickly begin to strip.

“Ksenia, stop! What are you doing?” Clint looks horrified.  I stop in the middle of undoing my bra.  Perhaps I miscalculated.

“I’m sorry, did you want to?” I lean over so he can reach more easily.

“Jesus Christ, no,” Clint pushes me away gently.  “I don’t want to have sex with you.  Please put your top back on." Uncertainly, I reach for my sweatshirt and tug it over my head.  In all my years of training, I have never come across a situation like this.

“Is it something I did?”

“No, Ksenia. Besides the fact that I have a wife, it would be completely inappropriate for us to,” he gestures emphatically between us. I stare dumbly at him.  He looks desperate. I feel a stab of guilt for being the one who caused him to feel this way, when he has shown me nothing but kindness.

“Okay, let's back up a minute. Do you understand what consent is?” Reluctantly, I shake my head.  He is talking as if this is basic knowledge I should know, like the algebra.

“That’s fine. It means that if anyone asks you to do anything you don’t want to do, sexually, or otherwise, you have the right to say no. Always.”

“What if it is a superior?” The idea is laughable.

“Especially if it is a superior.”

“Even if they order it?” I clarify.

“Yes,” he says firmly. I nod slowly, taking it in.  This rule clearly is American, it definitely did not apply in the Red Room.  I am not sure Clint has thought it through either, it is the most efficient way to keep tools in check, but I do not argue further.

“And anyway,” he continues, “the age of consent in the US is 18, so you are technically underage regardless.”

This piece of information is not surprising.  The Red Room didn’t start sending us on regular honeypots until we were at least sixteen, because we looked too young.  But Clint seems to mean no training either.  How are we supposed to keep up our skills without practice?  But I do not question. I am not to use those skills anymore.

Clint sighs. “Okay, are we good?” I nod meekly and he turns on the TV.  They watch a lot more TV here, I have noticed.  In the Red Room, we were given courses to improve our skill sets in between missions and training.  I had almost finished Organic Explosives, and was going to move on to Advanced Field Surgery.  All the “down time” here is mind numbing.  I watch as Dancing with the Stars plays. Some celebrity in a too tight tux prances across the screen.

“They’re not very good,” I observe.  Clint scoffs.

“It’s only the second week.” I nod, flexing my feet.

“Do you miss dancing?” he looks at me curiously.

I shrug. “ I mean, I guess. I didn’t get to do it as much after I graduated.”

“You could start again, we could get you classes.”

I make a non-committal gesture. Honestly, it has been a while since I thought about ballet.  I was always better at gymnastics.  But perhaps I could start up again.

We lapse into silence, other than Clint’s occasional cat calls as he heckles a contestant he particularly dislikes.  I find myself beginning to enjoy the show.  None of the dancers are particularly good, but as Clint explained to me, that doesn’t matter much.  Half an hour later, the end credits begin to roll.  Clint stretches contentedly.

“You and Bruno should never be allowed in the same room together,” he declares.

“It’s not my fault the other judges are too soft,’ I retort, but I am not really angry.  It is just for fun. Banter. “Those celebrities were dancing like five year olds.”

“You’d be hard pressed to find many five year olds who can dance like that.”

“You are right, they would be much better.” Clint laughs.  I feel the warm glow in my chest again.

“My daughter dances. Lila. You should meet her, she’d be thrilled to have a cousin who knows ballet.”

I freeze at the word. Cousin. I have known this man for less than two weeks.  It is obviously for lack of a better alternative.  I have never even met his family.  He shouldn’t want his children anywhere near me.

“I don’t have family.”

“You have us. And you could have others. We could find them.”

I shake my head. “You couldn’t. I can’t remember what country I was born in, let alone my parents' names.”

By the time I was four, I didn’t even know what my first language was, although I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Russian.  The only coherent memories I have of that age are in a language I didn’t understand.  My parents could be Icelandic and I would have no idea.  Not that it matters much now.  It is very unlikely that they are still alive, and even less so that they would want to meet with someone they thought was dead for twelve years.  Especially when that someone is me.  If they ever envisioned an emotional reunion with their long-lost daughter, they probably didn't fantasise about that daughter being a fourteen year old murderer.

“We could find them,” he insists. “If that’s what you wanted.”

I mull the idea over. My first thought is to refuse.  Things like me don’t deserve family.  In the off chance they are still alive, it would be selfish to uproot their life with an assassin.  But I would be lying to say I wasn’t curious.  Just to see who they are. To see who I could have been, if I wasn’t taken by the Red Room.  They would never have to know.  Spy school left me with some good internet stalking abilities, according to Wanda, at least.  I could find out where I came from, my birthday, even my real name.  Where my place could have been in the world.  _You have no place in the world_.

“Maybe.”


	6. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo how's it going??  
> Sorry updates are kind of irregular, I'm in the middle of exams at the moment and I'm away all of this weekend so I can't write. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit lighter, exploring the relationship between Ksenia and Wanda a bit more. Please let me know what you think/ leave kudos if you like it!!  
> Thanks  
> ~Yael

_My broken knuckles crack against the punching bag, but I do not stop. I let them fly faster and faster, until blood is streaming down my hands and my shredded skin adorns the bag. My shoulders burn from the exertion, so I switch to kicking instead, alternating between each leg. It sends sickening jolts of pain up my recently reset ankle, but I cannot risk wearing shoes to soften the impact lest they make a noise on the stairs. And besides, it is a test of endurance, which I cannot fail. I pause, panting for breath. The electricity crackles overhead. There is a creak on the stairs. I freeze, straining my ears. There shouldn’t be anyone here, the guard isn’t due for another ten minutes._

_Quickly, I stash the punching bag in the store room and pull myself up to drop down behind it. The training room doesn’t leave a lot of helpful hiding spots, probably on purpose. A few seconds later, there is a slight scraping as someone slides the door open. I wait. Then complete silence. If I didn't know better, I would have thought the person had left upon finding the room empty, but I was made to be more careful than that. Sure enough, a second later, someone pulls open the door to the store room. It is too soft to be the guard. I tense my muscles to stop them shaking and force myself to breathe slowly, silently. My breath clouds in the cold. I clamp my hand over my mouth.There is a soft huff of exertion as the person tugs at the bag in front of me. The chain jangles loudly. I scrabble at it with my nails, trying to pull it back, but to no avail. A draft floods in as it comes away. I tense, ready to duck or swing as necessary. The girl in front of me jumps back, her expression mirroring her shock. Mine is schooled into a blank mask._

_“_ _Hi.”_

_"Hi.” It is Katya, another girl from my class. She had gone missing two days ago, I was sure she had been eliminated. I don’t ask how she got here. Her pale skin is translucent in the cold, her hair tugged into a wispy bun._

_“You shouldn’t be here,” she says accusingly._

_“Neither should you,” I retort. Katya grins impishly, sizing me up._

_“I won’t tell if you don’t.” I raise my eyebrows. A challenge. Steadily, she holds my gaze. If they wanted to know, we would be powerless to stop them. Slowly, I nod in agreement._

I sit at my desk, finishing my schoolwork for the week. Thankfully, it is not the horrible math again. Although I shouldn’t feel any particular way about an assignment. I do what is asked of me. Black Widow has set me Romeo and Juliet, an apparently classic piece of literature. It is infinitely easier; English is about manipulation, playing with the subconscious to create the desired effect. It is something I have been perfecting my whole life. I finish the last sentence, then go back to the beginning to proof read. After the disaster of last week, I need to show I am worth something. That I can do something of value.

I am collecting the papers into a pile when Wanda bursts into my room. She is bouncing, practically thrumming with excitement. I regard her warily. The last thing she was this excited about was a baking project that earned us a two week ban from the kitchen. After a moment's silence, she is unable to contain herself any longer.

“Tony is having a party!” she exclaims. I don’t know why this is so surprising, from what I’ve heard his parties are both frequent and chaotic.

“And we’re invited!” Wanda grins gleefully. “It’s an Avengers party, for the Stark Relief Fund, we’re going dress shopping this afternoon.”

I nod slowly, digesting this information. It will be my first time leaving the compound since the mall trip. We would have gone furniture shopping, but I begged Clint to let us do it online. It will be the first time I have gone out since my identity was released.I have seen pictures of other fundraisers the Avengers have been to. They were treated like celebrities, with glitzy paparazzi pics and interviews. My stomach churns at the thought of cameras pointed at me, people asking me questions. I am a spy, my purpose in life is to be anonymous. How do these people expect me to behave? Who do they want? Almost certainly not Ksenia. They want the new, eager Avenger, the prodigy, the hero. I am not that person. I am something less, something broken. Nobody would want that to protect them.

* * *

Me and Wanda sit side by side in the dress store. She chats excitedly as the assistants bring out racks of dresses. I size up each gown, assessing what might work.

“Do you girls see anything you like?” Pepper asks. Her and Black Widow are standing by the shoes, deliberating between two pairs of black heels. Wanda cautiously reaches out and gently caresses a burgundy halter neck.

“Can I try this one?”

“Of course,” the assistant, Jean, smiles smoothly. “Can I get anything for you, miss?” My mouth goes dry. There are at least two dozen dresses here.

“Ksenia, I think this one would really suit you.” I whip around. Widow is proffering a midnight blue off the shoulder gown. It is floor length, covering the scars on my legs, but has a plunging back. Hesitantly, I take it. “Okay. Thank you, Widow.”

“Natasha,” she corrects.

“Natasha,” I echo hastily. However, to my surprise, she does not appear cross, giving me an awkward half smile as I make my escape to the fitting rooms.

I twirl around in the mirror. Not to brag, but the dress truly does suit me, highlighting my complexion and hugging me snugly. My masters would be proud. I tug on the straps, trying to coax them into sitting lower on my shoulders to hide the fading arrow wound Clint gave me. He has gone back to the farm, and won’t be at the party. The thought puts me more on edge than I like to admit. I have become unhealthily dependent on him, on his constant reassurances and never ending patience with me. It is a good thing he has gone, it will force me to make it on my own. I ignore the part of my brain saying I’ll miss him, I’m excited to see him again. I turn to the side, sighing. I have definitely gained weight since I arrived at the compound. It is not enough to show in the tight fitting dress, but makes the flatness of my chest more noticeable than before. I try sucking in my stomach, but it doesn’t make a difference. I still barely fill my B cups. The Black Widow was going on honeypot missions by the time she was fifteen. I could pass as eleven or twelve if I wanted.

Raised voices are coming from outside. I whip around, ready for danger.

“I’m sorry, I thought you would want them hidden.” Jean’s panicked voice explains. I poke my head out of the fitting room. Natasha is holding a low cut black dress with a slit up one leg.

“You’ll never find a dress to cover them all; you might as well give up now,” she says exasperatedly. Jean nods quickly, withering under Natasha’s intense glare.

“Absolutely, we’ll get this altered right away.” She cannot grab the dress fast enough, and scurries away. Natasha flops down onto the stall, hand drifting to her stomach. I have seen the scar there while training, and the exit wound on her back. I wonder what it was from. The Red Room gave us a serum that helps scars fade faster, among other things. They couldn’t have damaged tools. They needed us pristine.

“It’s not her fault, Nat,” Pepper says consolingly, “lots of people would want them covered.” She nods vaguely, still rubbing the scar on her abdomen absently.

“You could always give them a nasty review,” I offer without thinking. “I mean- I-” I blush furiously. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, I was just-” Pepper and Wanda laugh, and even Natasha smiles faintly, but she still seems distracted, not entirely present.

* * *

I dig my nails into the edge of the leather seat, craning my neck as the car pulls up to the entrance. My palms are sweaty, and I try to wipe them against my dress, but the gauzy fabric doesn’t help. I can already hear the babble of voices as the car pulls up the driveway. There has to be at least two hundred people here. I swallow nervously. For the hundredth time, I check my makeup in the mirror. It is still flawless, the product of three years of lessons in the Red Room. Finally, we pass the elaborately sculpted bush blocking my view of the entrance and I get a view of the red carpet. Photographers line either side, cameras flashing, as people make their way into the venue. Anxiously, I scan it for the other Avengers, and see Steve and Natasha posing for photos together and Pepper answering questions.

The car pulls to a stop. Quickly, I school my features into a relaxed, cheeky smirk and force myself to loosen my posture. I can do this. It is a mission, I have done it hundreds of times before. The chauffeur opens the door. I start to climb out, but Wanda stops me. She grabs my hand, expression panicked and eyes flashing red. I try to get out of the car again, but she pulls me back. My heart jumps to my throat. I can’t leave her here. I need Clint, or Cap, anybody. I turn back to her, trying to look reassuring. I smile encouragingly, turning my back to the carpet to block her view of the reporters.

“It’s fine,” I soothe. “We’re going to be fine.” Red tendrils are weaving around Wanda’s fingers and snaking up her wrists. I don’t flinch away.

“So many voices.” She is frozen in her seat. I need to reassure her, though I would happily hide in the car with her. Hesitantly, I take Wanda’s hand and squeeze it.

“We’re going to be okay,” I repeat. “We’re in this together, you can’t abandon me now.” I try to come off as flippant, but acid is churning in my stomach. I try to pull her from the car, and, thankfully, this time she follows me, stumbling slightly in her heels. She grips my hand even tighter as we walk towards the entrance. It would probably hurt if I wasn't holding hers just as tight. She huddles close to me as the cameras start to flash, but I keep my back erect and a smirk plastered on my face. My masters would be proud. The reporters surge forward, brandishing microphones. I would take a firefight over this any day.

“Ksenia! Wanda! What is it like being the youngest members of the Avengers?”

“Are the rumours true that the Avengers found you on a mission?”

“Is it legal to have two underage young people in such a dangerous job?”

“Ksenia! How did you become a part of the team?”

“I was just-” I falter. What did the Avengers want me to say about the circumstances in which I joined? Probably not that I was kidnapped from my assassination mission. I back away hastily.

“Wanda, we have to ask what protocols are in place to monitor enhanced individuals such as yourself?” Wanda is trembling, her powers are spiralling again. I think the bones in my hand are going to be crushed. Sudden rage blooms inside me.

“Wanda is not a threat to you, much less than I am if you don’t stop talking,” I reply hotly, bristling. I am satisfied to see the reporter cower under my glare as I sweep past him. We are finally at the end of the carpet and able to slip inside. I tug Wanda to behind one of the columns in the corner, rubbing circles on the back of her hand. I can still feel her powers pulsing against my palm.

“You’re okay, it is over, we’re fine.” I don’t know what to say to her. I think yelling at her to get it together isn't the best approach, like I would for me. I try to remember what Clint would do. Awkwardly, I pull her into a hug. Her arms feel suffocating around me. I count backwards from ten. Wanda is my friend. I rub jerky circles on her back. She is not going to hurt me. I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms. The slight pain helps to ground me. It feels good, normal.

After what feels like eternity, she pulls away. I suppress a sigh of relief. I unclench my fists and see a smear of blood. Hastily I wipe them against the dark fabric of my dress.

“Sorry,” Wanda is eyeballing the ground, still glowing slightly red. “Wasn’t expecting so many people.”

“It’s fine. Like you said, happens to everyone.” I feel myself blushing too, remembering my humiliating lack of control. It is fine, for Wanda. I should be better. I peek out from the pillar where we are hiding. Everybody is dancing, or off to the side engaged in conversation. Nobody is paying attention to us. Even the photographers are relaxing at the bar.

“I was excited for this. I’m sorry I ruined it.”

I raise an eyebrow. The night isn’t over yet. My life is mine to make. I grin.

“Wanna dance?”


	7. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back again! Sorry about slow updates...  
> TW: gunshots/ bombs  
> Please review!! ;))

The clock in the kitchen beeps. Two AM. Sighing, I shut my laptop and massage my temples. If Clint finds out I was up so late, he will be mad. It is too late to go to bed now, so I head to the gun range. The compound is eerily quiet at this time of night, or morning, depending on how you look at it. The sky has finally cleared, bathing the corridors in moonlight. I stop, leaning against the wall. The pounding in my head has subsided, and my thoughts are clearer. It has to have been at least three days since I have gotten anything more than four hours sleep. Even I am forced to admit that this is not healthy. Before Ultron, Tony was my late night companion, accompanying me through many secret bottles of vodka. But he has moved in with Pepper in a cabin downstate, and I am left alone.

I grab my favourite gun and some clips, not bothering with headphones. I can practically hear Steve chastising me. I snort. Any damage will be repaired soon enough. One of the few benefits of the Red Room’s experiments. I fire the first round. The bullets embed themselves in the bullseye. I cannot miss. I fire the second round. I almost want the bullets to miss, to be evidence that I am only a failed experiment. That my lost humanity is a failure. But I never miss. I am a monster by design. Their design.

The recoil of the gun sends tremors up my arms, jarring my shoulders. I slam clip after clip in, my ears ringing, until the centre of the target falls through and falls onto the floor with a dull thump. 

My breath shudders in my chest. I dig my nails into my thighs, trying to stop my hands from shaking. I clear away the target and stow my gun back in its case. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am being completely irrational. It has been almost ten years, for God’s sake. I should have moved on. Even Ksenia, who has been here for all of two months, has regained more normalcy than me. Or is better at faking it. I can barely tell the difference anymore. 

The halls are still deathly quiet. I scan the perimeter of the Compound. I can’t even see a rabbit darting for cover. I check again, just in case. For the past week, I have been exhausting every contact I have left, looking for any information on the Red Room. The location of their best asset was released six week ago, and there hasn’t been so much as a whisper of their plan to retaliate. I think it's dubious at best that they are so willing to let their weapons, carefully cultivated for ten years, escape so easily. However, none of my contacts have been able to tell me anything. But then again, if there is one thing the Red Room is good at, it is going undetected.

Clint would tell me to ask Ksenia, to use the team. She might know something I don’t. A new contact, a new base. But I can’t bring myself to involve her. She is barely fifteen, I don’t want to burden her with the threat of the Red Room finding her. She should be recapturing anything left of her childhood, not trying to capture international terrorist organisations. Her weekend job is already being a superhero, she doesn’t need to be tracking down terrorists as a side hobby. 

On my way back to my quarters, I stop by her room. Over the past few weeks, it has become slightly less sparse. The heated bean bag has taken up residence on her bookshelves, one of Wanda’s scented candles is on her dresser, and my copy of Brave New World recently appeared on her nightstand.

I crack open the door. My eyes immediately zone in on her bed. It is empty, still made with military precision. I run over to her window. The drapes are wide open, but the window is securely bolted. She must never have made it to bed. That means she could have been missing for hours. She could be halfway around the world by now, already back in the hands of the Red Room. How could I have allowed myself to become so lazy, so incompetent? How did they manage to get into the compound in the first place? I run back into the hall, towards my office. I know that it is futile at this point to check the security cameras, Ksenia must be long gone, but I could at least get an identity on the kidnapper.

The floorboards behind me creak slightly. In an instant, the intruder is pinned to the wall. I cock my gun against their head, but I won’t kill them yet. Not until I find out what they did to -

“Ksenia?”

“Natasha?” she gasps.

I spring away, releasing her. She coughs, massaging her neck. Her face is grey with shock, the whites of her eyes shining.

“How are you here? I thought you were missing! What the hell were you even doing, it’s three in the morning!”

She recoils at my words, as if I slapped her, trembling. Her fingers rake through her hair. “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. I can do better, I promise I -”

“Stop!” Her mouth snaps shut instantly. Guilt floods my veins. I wince, trying to block out memories of almost identical incidents. It's only been two months. I soften my stance.

“I’m sorry.” She ducks her head, avoiding eye contact.

“I thought you were missing.” I exhale slowly. “ I went to check on you, and your bed was empty. I thought someone had taken you. Where were you?”

She flushes, but thankfully doesn’t ask why I was checking on her. I don’t think I could answer honestly even if she did.

“I was in Wanda’s room. We were watching the Harry Potter movies, and I fell asleep. I was on my way back to my room.”

I nod slowly, taking it in. They were doing normal, teenage things, staying up late, watching movies. And I immediately jumped to the worst conclusion. I have probably made Ksenia too terrified to do it again. Perfect.

“Well, that’s fine, good, actually. Sorry. You can go.” 

I watch in despair as she escapes at breakneck speed.

* * *

“I haven’t heard anything.”

“That can happen once you become an official antique.” Steve smiles good naturedly at my joke.

“On Alexander Rotier. I guess our last attempt to find him got derailed.” I raise my eyebrows. That’s one way to put it. Go out to find an evil scientist, come back with a teenage assassin.

“We still got the intel. I set up a tracking algorithm a month ago. It’s sweeping the entire world for anyone matching their signature.”

“What would we do without you, Nat?”

“Not very much,” I reply, shoving him lightly.

“Humble,” Steve laughs, nudging me back. 

There is a pause. Steve rolls his shoulders. He is steeling himself. I can’t wait to hear whatever he is about to say.

“We should bring Ksenia in on this case.”

“No.”

“Nat -”

“She doesn’t need this, Steve.” 

“She was on a mission there too, Nat, she could have intel we don’t.”

“If I know the Red Room, she doesn’t know anything other than what her mark looked like.” 

“Then it can’t hurt to -” I want to scream in frustration. He doesn’t get it, how could he? I have to protect her from herself. She’s not ready to fight with the Avengers, with the eyes of the world upon her. Even when I joined SHIELD, I was allowed to slip up, to make mistakes. If Ksenia makes even the slightest misstep, kills someone she should have incapacitated, the entire world know. 

“I’m trying to give her a break, Steve. Give her time to be a teenager. Her and Wanda. What happened to her is my fault, I can at least give her this.”

My hand strays to my holster. I force myself to relax my posture and let go of my gun. To my infuriation, Steve only looks at me patiently, waiting for me to regain my composure. 

“You’re doing a great job, Nat. Look how much better she is now than when she arrived.”

I hate the patronizing tone in his voice. Trying to diffuse me like a time bomb, or worse, handle me like some fragile porcelain ornament that will shatter at any minute. Ever since she arrived, he and Clint have been hovering constantly. Clint called me three times yesterday under the guise of a lost gun. 

I shake my head. None of Ksenia’s improvement was down to me. Wanda, Clint, even Cap, yes. All I have done is retraumatize her. My phone buzzes. Grateful for the diversion, I pull it out.

“We have a hit.”

“Shit.”

“Language,” I smirk. 

“Can you please drop it?” Cap groans. I pass him my phone. 

“We have a location on the scientists. San Francisco.”

“Avengers?”

“Assemble.”

We race to the hangar. Sam is already there, strapping RedWing into his suit. I swear, he treats that thing like a puppy. I roll my eyes as he pats it protectively, climbing into the Jet.

Wanda skids into the bay, Ksenia close behind her. She is in the new uniform Tony designed for her, a navy jumpsuit with a burgundy bodice. The bodice and chevrons on the sleeves are reminiscent of snake skin, for her codename. Tony and I have even been working on poison darts she can shoot from her wrists that Tony has fondly named Viper fangs. She heads for the armoury, sliding knives into the sheaths on her suit. My legs lock up as I leave the armoury, blocking her way. After all that with Steve, this cannot be happening.

“What do you think you’re doing?” My voice comes out icy.

She pauses uncertainly, looking to Wanda. That is a new development. I file it away for later. 

“There was a mission call?”

“You haven’t been cleared for missions.” This cannot happen. It has barely been two months. 

“Natasha,” Steve says in an enragingly reasonable tone, “we are seriously understaffed, with Tony, Clint and Rhodey away. This could turn into a full scale attack. We need all hands on deck.”

I clench and unclench my fists. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. She will be fine. She hasn’t tried to kill anyone in training since her arrival. I don’t mind if Wanda comes on missions. I was a fully qualified Black Widow at her age.

“It is my job.” Ksenia looks tentative, unsure whether she will be punished for speaking up, but there is steely resolve in her eyes. My resolve wavers. I can’t punish her for having expressed her opinion so openly. I know it is pointless anyway, Steve is right, we need her.

Reluctantly, I nod in agreement, brushing past her to the cockpit of the Jet.

* * *

  
  


The location I was sent is an inconspicuous office in central San Francisco. We bring the Jet to land two blocks away. Ksenia huddles close to Wanda, the only sign of her nerves. Steve slips into his Captain Rogers mode as we jog through the streets. 

“Nat and I are going to infiltrate the building. Sam, we need you up high, make sure nobody tries anything. Wanda, Ksenia, set up a perimeter, keep civilians clear.” He looks directly at me. “Do not engage unless absolutely necessary.” I shoot him a quick smile in thanks.

“If anyone dies, I will be very pissed,” I tell them seriously.

* * *

Steve and I enter the building. The ground floor looks like the lobby to any other office building in the city. It is completely deserted. I wave him off and head up the stairs.

The second floor is the picture of corporate hell. Desks stretch into the distance, adorned with fake plants and pictures. Keeping my gun cocked, I sneak along the perimeter. It is easy to let go, and let the Black Widow take over. 

Suddenly, the floor shakes. Over the comms, I hear the sound of a grenade go off. A man jumps up from a desk in the corner. We lock eyes for a second, before he pulls the pin.

I dive behind a desk as it goes off.

The mercenary takes off from his desk, disappearing around the corner. I catch up with him quickly, shooting before he even registers my presence. In the corner of my eye, I see three more approaching, moving slowly as if that will give them the element of surprise. One dives at me, but I sweep his legs out easily. He produces a knife, lunging clumsily at me, and I throw a Widow’s Bite at him. He collapses on the floor convulsing. I roll forwards. The two other mercenaries are escaping. I throw my knife at one. It hits him in the shoulder. He wrenches it out, cursing loudly. I use his distraction to tackle him and snap his neck. The last one makes a dash for the fire escape, but I vault over the last desk and wrap my thighs around his neck, strangling him until he’s unconscious.

“How are you guys doing?”

“Clear upstairs.” I reply.

“Shit,” Sam curses, “Rotier’s escaping.”

“I’m on it.” I jump off the fire escape, landing in a roll. I quickly clock him trying to disappear into the crowd that has gathered. On the left, I see Wanda engaged with five of his goonies. I can’t see Ksenia anywhere.

“Out of my way!” I twist through the crowd. Where has she gone? My mind fills with a hundred different possibilities. Injured in combat, trapped by rubble from the grenades. Someone could have used the chaos to take her. I am closing the distance on Rotier. 

“No!”

The scream wrenches me back to the present. There is a flash, then people crying out. A car is upturned, and civilians scatter. It explodes, the flames jumping to the nearby shrubbery. 

I race towards the debris. If I stop now, he will escape. I fire a shot at his head, but misses, as I am swarmed by the crowd. Suddenly a knife slices through the air, embedding itself in his back. He tumbles to the ground, coughing, as blood bubbles between his lips. Ksenia jumps from her vantage point on top of a car, throwing another knife. It nicks his arm, pinning him to the ground. Relief floods my chest. She is okay. We will be okay. 

She runs over to the rubble. I try to push through the crowd towards her. Ksenia is crouched down, her back to Rotier as she tries to coax someone out from under a car. I shove people out of my way, trying to get to her.

“We’re two minutes out.” Cap’s voice echoes in my ear. A small girl crawls into Ksenia’s arms. Ksenia curls around her protectively, blocking her view of the destruction. Behind her, Rotier pulls out a gun. I watch in horror as he raises it, surprisingly steady considering the heavily bleeding stab wound in his stomach. It feels as if I am wading through water as I finally break free from the crowd. Ksenia is still bent over the girl, not responding as I call out to her. I catch a sadistic glint in Rotier’s eye as he flicks of the safety.

“Natasha!”


	8. Ksenia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo people. I know. Updating a week later, probably broken a Guineas World Record there. And plans to update again this week, crazy times we live in (p.s don't hold me to that). Sorry for leaving you all on a cliffhanger, I'm completely evil, I know. Anyways, I hope a slightly longer chapter makes up for it. Please share any thoughts/comments, especially about a couple fo things I have hinted on for later...  
> Hope you enjoy!  
> TW: flashbacks, panic attacks, SH, GSW/violence.

“Natasha!”

I freeze in horror as she falls to the ground. The girl I saved from the car, Samira, wails in shock at the gunshot, entwining her arms around my neck. I rub her back soothingly, but it is taking all of my willpower not to push her away. I have to get to Natasha. But the mission comes first. My orders were to set up a perimeter and keep civilians safe. But Black Widow is my teammate, I have to help her.  _ You always end up alone. You should know better than trying to protect others, Ksenia.  _ I can’t move. I am frozen in place. I hear Samira crying, but make no move to comfort her. I see Natasha bleeding on the ground, pushing away a civilian trying to help her. I need to help her. It feels as if I am floating as I detach Samira’s arms from around me, telling her to stay still until I come back for her. 

I throw myself over the rubble, ignoring the sting as the smaller rocks embed themselves in my palms. I skid to a stop beside her, dropping down to my knees. Blood is already seeping heavily from the wound in her stomach. Her eyes are glassy, unfocused. That’s not right. She should be more alert than this, she hasn’t lost that much blood. Why isn’t she okay? I clench my fists, digging the gravel further in. The pain seems to snap my attention back into focus. Her lips are moving, but I can’t make sense of what she’s saying. 

Hastily, I push the person still hovering over her away. I unzip her suit, exposing the wound. With my knife, I cut the back of her sports bra open, pushing the torn fabric as hard as I can against the gash. I look back at her face. It has taken on a grayish tint, and her eyes are fluttering shut. No. She has to stay conscious. Should I talk to her? In the Red Room, we only had to perform first aid on ourselves. There was nobody else worth saving. They told us to cut our arms, and use the pain to keep ourselves alert , but something tells me Cap wouldn’t approve of that strategy. Instead, I slap her lightly, talking loudly in her ear.

“Natasha? Widow? Can you hear me?” Nothing. My stomach begins to swirl. She can’t die, I can’t be the reason she dies.

“Please, it’s Ksenia. You have to stay awake. Steve’s coming, I promise.” I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. As if my promises would mean anything to her. I glance over my shoulder. There is still no sign of the rest of the team.

“Nat?” I try the nickname I have heard the others use. “Please, you can’t die, you are not allowed to die. If you do, there will be nobody to make me do math. You don’t want me to go my whole life unable to do calculus.” I am rambling now. But I see her eyelids twitch slightly, so I press on.

“Please. Wanda still needs you to teach her how to spar. And Steve won’t be able to work the microwave without you. And I-” My breath catches in my throat. I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Would I miss her? Do I need her? Have I become dependent on her, on the others; Wanda, Steve, Clint?  _ You can rely on nobody but yourself _ . One of the few things I knew with certainty for most of my life. And yet the thought of her leaving, of any of them leaving, sends my panic into overdrive. I can’t believe I have allowed this to happen. I am compromised.

“Just...please?” I practically beg her. Natasha doesn’t respond, her face ashen, but heartbeat steady.

I don’t know how long I have been with her when Sam finally arrives with the Quinjet. Steve pulls me roughly off Natasha, too worried about her to coddle me, scooping her up and sprinting up the ramp. I remain where I am, my muscles uncooperative with any halfhearted instructions I give them. I feel a gentle hand grab mine, pulling me up. I wrench it free on instinct, ready to dodge a blow, but it is only Wanda. She looks hurt when I pull away, so I take her hand again, although the touch feels suffocating.

We begin to follow Steve when I remember Samira. She is still standing where I left her. I pull away from Wanda again, ignoring her desperate yells as I jump back over the debris. I kneel down in front of Samira, wiping away the tears that have etched tracks through the grime on her face.

“I thought you left,” Tears are still running down her face, but she is surprisingly calm.

“No, of course not. I said I’d come back for you, didn’t I?” I try to joke. But she can’t be more than five, so my poor attempt at humour goes over her head.

“Why did you go?”   
“I had to help-”

“The person who got hurted?”

“Yeah,” I nod in agreement, picking her up and walking towards the crowd of people still gathered.

“Was she your mom?” Her question takes me by surprise. I pause, wondering how to answer. Explaining the details of my relationship with Natasha is probably too much for a traumatized, tired kid, I think.

“No, I don’t have a mom.” Samira stares at me with confusion.

“Everybody has a mom, silly.”

“Not me,” I try to shrug nonchalantly. Like I haven’t been wondering about my own mother since Clint brought up finding her. “Speaking of which, is that yours?”

A woman is pushing through the crowd towards us. She sobs convulsively as she reaches us, pulling Samira into a tight embrace. I squirm, unsure what to do. My plan to run away before she clocks my presence is unraveled as the woman grasps my hand tightly.

“You saved her.” I bite my lip. If I kicked the man next to us, it would cause enough distraction for me to get back to Wanda.

“Thank you -”

“Ksenia,” I supply. We could be on our way back to the Compound. Natasha needs to be in the Medbay, not on the Jet.

“Ksenia.” I flash a quick smile and try to leave. Samira wraps her arms around me again.

“You’re my favourite Avenger now,” she declares.

* * *

I stare at the linoleum floor stretching out in front of me. There are scratches in the plastic varnish which I trace with my finger, leaving a smear of blood over the top. Panic is buzzing at the back of my head like a wasp nest. Natasha was shot, and it was entirely my fault. If I had been more alert, I would have noticed Rotier sooner. If I had hit him properly in the first place, he would have been dead anyway. I try taking slow breaths, then digging my nails into my arm when that doesn’t work. I lean my head back against the wall. The fluorescent lights pound against my eyelids and suddenly the relief of the pain in my arms is not enough. In a last desperate attempt to prevent the floodgates of my mind breaking, I sink my teeth into my arm, but it is too late.

_ I dig my nails into the ceramic, leaving scratch marks as I bite my tongue to hold back a scream. Blood spatters the floor, but at this point, I don’t know where it came from. I spit some more from my mouth, having chewed my cheeks raw, and it dribbles down my chin. I sink down against the wall. The blood loss, or the pain, is making me lightheaded, and the lights now feel overwhelmingly bright, so I squeeze my eyes shut. But it is worth it, I tell myself. It will be worth it. Nobody has to find out. _

There is something warm in my hands. I grip it tightly, like a lifeline. Someone is rubbing gentle circles on my back. I can hear them talking as well, but the words wash over me in waves, overwhelming me, but disappearing before I can make sense of them. Bright lights flash before me, but are quickly obscured. Someone is in front of me. My thoughts are swimming. Are they a friend? That seems unlikely. I should attack them. I throw the warm thing at their head, only to feel tears prickle at my eyes as I realise I want it back. Why do I want it back? I shouldn’t want anything. Somehow, it makes its way back into my hands regardless, and I hug it to my chest. It is only now that I realise I am shaking, and that my breath is periodically getting caught in my throat or evading me altogether. My teeth chatter, and I feel someone drape something over my shoulders. I huddle closer into it.

“Ksenia? Can you hear me?”

“It’s no good, we’re going to have to sedate her.” The words wash around me, echoing in my head.

“No! Please, I can do it.”

“Wanda,”

“I think we should let her try.” I can’t focus on anything. Who are these people?  _ Breathe, Ksenia. _

“It’s been twenty minutes, it’s a miracle she’s still conscious.”

“Please, let me try.”

A figure squats down in front of me. Unlike the first person, they do not block my view, but stand at a slight angle so I can see the exit. 

“Hey, sestra. It’s just me, it’s Wanda.” Brown hair falls over their face as they lean back against the wall beside me.

“We’re going to be okay. We’re at the Medbay in the Compound. Can you take a breath with me?”

_ Wanda.  _ She can’t be here, how did she get here? I have to get her out. Breathe. I try to copy her. Can’t run if you can’t breathe. 

“That’s it, good, sestra. One more.”

My vision begins to clear. It is only then I realise Wanda is crying, her eyes puffy, red tendrils snaking around her hands. I did that. I reach out, and shakily wipe the tears away. Behind her, Steve and Sam are standing, concern clearly etched in every line of their faces. 

“Can you tell me where we are?”

“I- meditsinskiy?” I hesitate. That’s not right. “Medical?”

Relief floods their faces. Why, I don’t know. Steve smiles reassuringly at me. It is different to the patented Captain America smile he has given me in the past. This one is broken, has seen struggle, trauma. It is much more comforting. The other one just made me uncomfortable. Instead I feel myself relax more, allowing Wanda to scoot up next to and grasp my hand in hers.

“What happened?”

“You were having a flashback, or a panic attack.” Wanda looks unsure if she should even bring it up. No. Please, no. Since that one incident in the kitchen, I had been able to escape every time I felt the panic rising. Keeping the shameful weakness to myself. And now everyone on the team is here. They are going to kill me. Nobody wants damaged goods. They will - no, stop. I cut myself off before I can spiral again. They wouldn’t do that. The Avengers would smother me instead. Steve and Natasha call it “checking in”, but I am sure it is some new kind of torture. Wait, Natasha. Where is she?

I feel the memory pulsing at the back of my brain. Rotier. The explosions, the girl- Samira. And Natasha. Falling to the ground, bleeding out under my hands. 

I scramble to my feet, throwing off the blanket. I have to find her.

“Woah, kid, where’s the fire?” Sam stops me as I try to dodge around him.

“Widow, Natasha, where is she, is she okay?”

“She’s fine, she’s already awake.” When did that happen? The last thing I remember was her going into surgery once we got off the Jet.

“It was a quick surgery,” Wanda says, as if reading my mind. Which she probably was. I need to get better at hiding my thoughts. “She woke up ten minutes ago.”

I nod, biting my cheeks. “Can I see her?”

Steve nods. “You might want to clean those cuts first though.” I glance down at my arms and my eyes widen. Blood has congealed on my palms, but it is still leaking from the deep scratches running up my forearms. Purple crescent shaped bruises from my nails have formed on my lower arms. The ugly bite mark mars my wrist. Heat gathers in my cheeks. So little control. The others must be disgusted.

“I can bandage them for you if you want,” Steve offers. I shake my head vehemently. The thought of his hands all over me sends shivers up my spine.

“It’s fine, I need to shower anyway,” I quickly excuse myself.

* * *

I pull the sleeves of my sweatshirt down over my hands, hiding the bandages. I stand outside Natasha’s door, steeling myself to knock.

“Do you want me to come?” Wanda asks softly. I swear, I mean to say no, but I nod before I can stop myself. She knocks briskly on the door, before I have the chance to change my mind. I’m not ready yet.

Wanda pushes it open, and goes inside. I follow her, like some lost puppy. Natasha lies in the bed, hooked up to an IV. A large adhesive bandage covers a large portion of her abdomen.

Hesitantly, I approach her, keeping my body language as open as possible. I am not nervous. Natasha blinks sluggishly, taking in my disheveled appearance. I am praying she doesn’t remember what happened after she was shot. It would completely ruin any semblance of a working relationship we had formed. Wanda flashes her a quick smile, then curls up on a chair in the corner, pulling out her phone. I am on my own.

I clear my throat awkwardly. “How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I should be back in the field by April.” I frown. Why would it take so long? As far as I could see, it was a simple bullet wound, not hitting any major organs. It should be healed in a few weeks at most. I glance at Wanda, still curled up like a cat in the corner. I don’t know if the experiments are a secret. Nobody asked me about them when I arrived. I would have lied if they had.

“Eto dolgo lechit’”  _ That’s a long time to heal.  _ A statement, not a direct question.  _ Do not make it feel like an interrogation, you will never get the truth that way.  _ By the look on Natasha’s face, they told her this too, and she has seen right through my tactic.

“Tam zhe staraya rana, iz Odyssey.” _ It is in the same place as an old wound, from Odessa.  _ That doesn’t make any sense. An old injury shouldn’t impact the healing rate of a current one. The experiments, the injections, made it so they would heal without leaving a trace. Natasha must know that too. But she is staring at me, daring me to challenge her, so I look away, letting the subject drop.

“How are you doing?” she asks. English. She has made it painstakingly clear that this conversation is over. It is blatant diversion, but I play along.

“Great. I have almost finished the math problems you set me.” That’s a lie. I have done two of them. Wanda dragged me away after an hour to show me Legally Blonde. Natasha gives me an unimpressed look.

“This is a check in. We have to be honest with each other.” My patience is beginning to wear down. I can’t do all these emotions anymore. They are exhausting. They only get in the way, make you feel dangerous things. My feelings today could have compromised the entire operation. I am lucky Cap hasn’t punished me yet for prioritizing Natasha over my job.

So I smile and say, “I am being honest. I’m tired, but I’m okay.” Natasha’s eyes stray to my arms. Too late, I realise the sleeves have ridden up, displaying the bandages around my wrists. I tug them down. The cuts burn underneath, and I resist the urge to tear off the wrappings and dig my fingers into them again.

“I am going to go now.” My voice shakes, against my best efforts. “I will hand in the work tomorrow. I hope you feel better soon, Natasha.”

I don’t stick around to hear if she replies, practically flying down the corridor in my effort to get away.


	9. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo friends! I have kept my promise of posting again before the end of the week! *cue applause*  
> This chapter kind of turned out darker than intended, but ending on a happy note.  
> I have been thinking about starting a tumblr page for this story where I will post little one-shots (Mainly of Ksenia and Wanda/ Natasha but also others). You can also make requests for things you want to see in the story, or on the tumblr. Let me know if this is something you would be interested in!  
> Thank you to everyone who has commented on this story, it makes me sooo happy, you have no idea. I love hearing from you!  
> Hope you all enjoy this chapter :)  
> TW: Graphic violence, Self harm

The sun filters in through the drapes. I groan, burying my head under the pillow. A meme Wanda showed me pops into my head.  _ What do you want me to do, photosynthesis? _ I snort, before catching myself in horror. It’s things like this, the illogical happiness infesting me for no reason other than some stupid post on the internet, that has caused me to become so disgustingly weak. 

I was a complete mess yesterday. I couldn’t even hold it together on the flight back to the compound, curling up in a corner and burying myself in Brave New World. That Natasha gave me. I can’t even read books now without their help. And then, when we finally made it back, I failed to make it from the Medbay to my shower without having a mental breakdown. It is disgusting. I feel my skin crawl as I think of the uncontrollable urge to see Natasha, to check that she was okay, that led me to waiting outside her door as she was in surgery. Where the entire team finally saw me lose it, finally saw that I am not just broken, but completely shattered and stuck back together with something so inhumane, so twisted that I doubt I am even capable of normal relationships at this point. The look of horror on their faces when I eventually managed to get myself under control. I shudder.

It can only be a matter of time now before they come for me. After I saw Natasha, I took the vents back to my room and locked the door. I haven’t opened it for anyone since. Not Sam, who brought me food and told me he was there if I ever wanted to talk. Not Steve, who took the opposite approach and asked me if I wanted to train with him. Not Clint, who arrived late last night to see Natasha and probably wanted to punish me for letting his best friend get hurt. Not even Wanda. My sister, maybe. Sestra. No. Not anymore. Never again, not with Wanda, not with anyone.  _ Things like you do not have family. _ I don’t deserve it anyway.

Despite me ignoring her, she has knocked on my door a total of eight times since yesterday. She could have blasted it open with her powers in a second if she wanted to, but she hasn’t, and I do not understand why. Instead, she has slipped candy bars under the door, left mugs of tea and posted me lists of films I could watch. She is undeterred by the fact I have not touched anything she left and have been telling her to go away as loudly as I can in my mind.

There is a part of me aching to just give up, to grab the nearest Hershey bar, go and spar with Cap and then watch the Bake Off with Clint and Wanda. Definitely not go and talk to Sam, I am not sure if he meant that offer as a good thing or a promise of punishment, there is little I would hate more than a talk about emotion. But that small part of my mind is easily overpowered by the knowledge that I have allowed myself to become emotionally compromised, to the point where I let it interfere with a mission. My masters would be beside themselves. Even on my first mission, when I had only been six years old, I had not batted an eyelid as my sisters were killed in front of me. Now, their supposedly best weapon was distracted by a minor gunshot wound. I can practically feel the burning rod being administered to my back, and hear the harsh words of Ivan, admonishing me for my weakness. Telling me I was made to be better than this. Bile begins to burn in the back of my throat, but I pay it no heed.

* * *

Once, the instructors held a competition to see who could stand on their hands for the longest. Any girl who did not hold the perfect flat backed position would receive three lashes to the calves. The girl who collapsed first, after only forty minutes, was shot before her feet hit the ground. Each girl who fell after that did not eat for the number of days as girls still standing. Ekaterina became weak enough that she was killed twelve days later for fainting in ballet class. After six hours, only Katya and I were left. I arched my head to see if she was still standing, only to receive another three lashes to my already bleeding ankles. Katya stuck her tongue out and winked at me. I pulled a face back, but the motion threw off my balance. I tried to correct myself, but my muscles were already trembling just to stay upright and I crashed to the floor. A second later, a boot collided with my temple and sent my vision reeling. Katya had righted herself and was excused from the training room, leaving me alone with Ivan. He grabbed me by the hair and pulled me upright, hissing in my ear, “I thought you were better than this malen’kaya zmeya. I was betting on you.” Spittle flew between his lips as he spoke, landing in my ear. “But you let that girl corrupt you. She made you weak. You used to be made of marble.” He threw me to the floor and stalked out. My head was pounding as I dragged myself up to the dormitory, but the only thing my mind could focus on was the look of disappointment in his eyes.

The image still sends shame prickling through my body. I was weak then, I had let Katya distract me, but I can prove my worth now. Grabbing my phone, I crawl to the centre of my room. I set it up against the wall, with a timer of seven hours. Taking a steadying breath, I place my hands on the floor. I bend my fingers to help them grip, then lean as far back as I can. My left leg is pointed, just skimming the wood paneling. I push my weight forward onto my hands, kicking my leg up slowly. I am in complete control. I tense up my leg muscles, letting my right leg follow my left to a perfect 180 degree angle with my torso. My stomach clenches, as I lean back on the palms of my hands to stop myself going over. A sense of calm flows through me as I find the perfect balance. My body Is completely under my power, it can be swayed by nobody in this world. Nothing will distract me this time. I am truly made of marble.

* * *

I do not know how much time has passed, only that the timer has not gone off yet. Until then, I will show no sign of weakness. Sweat had begun to trickle down my back into my hair. My muscles are cramping with exhaustion. I could do this forever. I feel a laugh bubble inside of me. This is what I truly am. Alone in my bedroom, pain shooting through every limb of my body, my mind is clearer than it has ever been. I do not need anybody. The Red Room was right when they said I could rely on nobody but myself. Yesterday, I was falling apart at the seams like some old rag doll, now I have chipped away at my imperfections until a perfect sculpture remains. 

I am not naive enough to believe that this is the end, that now I will never struggle again, but this proves that I can exist detached from the world. I will prove to the Avengers that I can be of value, that my skills can be of value. They might have powers that greatly outshine me, but they are all compromised. They all have someone they would compromise for. I have no-one. An image of Wanda laughing as she tries to put eyeliner on me flits through my brain. A warm glow fills my chest. But I push it away. I have nobody, just as they always said. Ther burn between my shoulders intensifies. I feel my legs waver, before I pull them taut. I feel a rising panic when I don’t feel the crack of a whip against my legs. I take slow steadying breaths. It will be okay. I will have to punish myself later, there is nobody to do it for me.

Finally, I hear the chiming of my alarms. No. Not finally. There was no reason I wanted to stop. I collapse to the floor, muscles spasming. They convulse robotically, and I narrowly avoid hitting my head against my bed. My breaths shudder erratically in my chest as I try to haul myself into a sitting position.

“Ksenia?” It’s Wanda. The warm glow rises again, persistently pushing against my raw, battered lungs.

“I made you that weird Russian tea you like.” Her voice is resigned. She doesn’t expect me to reply. 

“And Clint is making chocolate chip pancakes. I can bring you some if you want.” She pauses for a second. I don’t respond.

“And um, I think you’d like Hidden Figures if you haven’t watched it yet. It’s on Amazon.” Everything is silent for a while, and I think she’s left but then I hear her voice again. I am surprised to hear it’s slightly raspy, like she is about to cry.

“Can you please tell me if you’re okay? I understand if you don’t want me there but we’re getting worried about you. And I’m sorry if we upset you. Just like knock or something if you’re okay. Please.” 

The glow in my chest turns sour. It weighs me down. I don’t understand. I tried not to need them, so they would want me around, but now Wanda is begging me to come out. Regardless of whether I need her, or whether I break down again. I hear her footsteps retreat,and a quiet, suppressed sob. That is my fault. I need to make her better, make her happy again. I want to call out to her, but I can’t muster the energy.

About an hour later, I have finally hauled myself into a sitting position, with my back against the cold metal of the chest at the end of my bed. I suddenly realise I am only wearing the bra and shorts I had on under my suit yesterday and I am cold. I reach for the blanket on my bed, but it is a futile attempt. Laboriously, I pull my knees to my chest in an effort to conserve heat. My mind has begun to cooperate with me again, although my thoughts are crawling by at snail’s pace. I flick the Swiss Army Knife in my hand open and closed as I contemplate my options. I could stay in here. It would be easier, not to have to face the team again and see the looks of disgust, or pity on their faces as they see me. I could run. That would definitely prove I have severed any emotional bonds I have formed. It would keep them safer too. I’m not stupid, I know the Red Room is definitely coming for me at some point. Or I could stay. I think I want to stay, but I don’t know why. There is no logic, no viable reasoning that justifies me staying. I would be putting the entire team in danger. They don’t need me, I probably only slow them down. I rest the knife against my thigh and flick out the blade. I hurt them. First Natasha, now Wanda. I press the blade gently against the skin. The only thing I am good for is causing pain. I push harder, splitting the top layer of skin. Blood seeps out. It does not ooze but flows freely, meandering in streams down my thigh. The same sense of calm from earlier settles over me. Once again, I am in control. It is a power trip, that’s all it is. Needing to feel in control of your own body. To be the one that causes pain, to be able to decide how much and when it stops. Before, that was my master’s right. Now, I am free. I get to decide. I draw another cut next to the first. One for each of the people I have hurt in the past two days. Blood begins to flow from this one too and I watch as the two streams intertwine together like mistletoe. I watch for a while longer, leaning back against the chest, until the blood clots and begins to scab. My eyes suddenly feel very heavy. I haven’t slept for nearly thirty five hours. I know I should probably clean the cuts, but the idea of waking all the way to the bathroom makes me want to cry. They will be completely healed by tomorrow regardless. I drag myself over to my bed and tumble into it, pulling the quilt up over my head. I do not even have the energy to put on my handcuffs, instead opting to shove my wrist through the bars of my bed before succumbing to the darkness.

* * *

“Ksenia Antonova!” A harsh voice jerks me from my sleep. I pull the gun out from under my pillow and aim it at the door.

“I’m coming in,” they warn just as my door flies open. Natasha is framed in my doorway, shaking in rage, or maybe fear, I do not know. Instinctively, I curl away from her as she storms towards my bed.

“Why is it that I get out of the Medbay only to hear five minutes,” she pauses, seething, “ _ five minutes _ later from a distraught Wanda that you have been locked in your room for nearly 48 hours refusing to see anyone. And  _ Clint, _ I honestly thought better of him than to leave you here all by yourself.” At this point, she is practically tearing her hair out, but her expression softens slightly when she sees me flinch away. She exhales deeply, seemingly finding her composure, before sitting down on the bed next to me.

“What’s going on? And don’t try to bullshit me.”

Somehow, I have ended up in Sam’s threatened therapy session, only with the Black Widow, which is somehow worse. There is no point even trying to lie.

“I am compromised.”

“What?”

“Emotionally. I let my feelings get in the way of our mission. I’m sorry.” 

Natasha stays quiet, seemingly weighing her options.

“You saved my life. I don’t know what happened exactly, but I know that if you hadn’t been there, I would have bled out before the others arrived.”

“But it was my fault Rotier wasn’t dead in the first place. None of this would ever have happened if I had been better.” She doesn’t understand. I tried to become a real person, let myself care about them, but I only hurt them. So I tried to distance myself, and it only made things worse.

“Nobody was expecting you to kill him. You saved a lot of lives.” It’s a small consolation.

“But I hurt you. And Wanda. I don’t mean to, I just-”

“You aren’t hurting us.” Natasha contradicts me firmly. “You can’t see how different Wanda is now that you’re here. She barely spoke before, now you two never shut up.” She nudges my shoulder to show me she’s joking.

“What about you? ” I can barely get the words out.

“I want you here, Ksenia. I don’t care what happens, how well you do on missions, how good you are at calculus,” I crack a weak smile, “I just want you, all parts of you, unconditionally.” 

I am floored by the sentiment. However, Natasha still looks grave, and I can tell we’re not done.

“These are new.” She indicates the scratches on my legs. I stay quiet. “They’re not from the mission.” 

My cheeks glow red, and I pull my comforter up over them. I’m not ready to talk about it. Please, just ask me anything else.

“I understand that sometimes it makes you feel better. Like you’re more present or in control, I don’t know.” She breaks off, hugging her arms around herself. For the first time, I am wondering if Natasha has matching scars somewhere. I always presumed she was too strong to ever be so impulsive. Natasha clears her throat.

“If you don’t want to talk about it now, that’s fine, we don’t have to. Just know that I’m here whenever, if you ever want to, or if you ever need anything. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

Natasha doesn’t leave, even though the conversation is over. She steals half of my comforter to wrap around her own legs, tells Jarvis to pull up Netflix, and calls Clint to demand he makes us hot chocolate. Wanda appears a second later, eyes wide, and she crawls into bed on the other side of me. She grabs my hand under the comforter, and for the first time ever, it feels comforting instead of suffocating. I lean against her, laughing at Natasha’s Phoebe Buffay impression as Friends starts to play.


	10. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!! How are you all doing?  
> Sorry it has been so long, a lot of sh*t has been going down in my life at the minute, so writing has not happened as often as I'd like. But hopefully, the pace will pick up again soon. Upside is, I have large parts of an upcoming plot line already written out, so those chapters will be updated quickly.  
> Disclaimer: I swear this started as a really fluffy chapter, but it ended up a lot darker than I planned. Oh well. I will try to make the next few lighter.  
> As always, please leave kudos and comment :)  
> TW:torture, rape, flashbacks

_ I slip in through the gym door. As always, she is already waiting, perched at the top of the wall bars. Grinning, she leaps down to meet me. She takes the proffered roll from my hand, tearing a chunk off and wolfing it down in one. _

_ “I thought you were done there for a second,” she mumbles, mouth full of bread. “You still weren’t in class when I got back from the mission.” _

_ “Private class,” I shrug. Katya rolls her eyes, smirking. _

_ “Of course, I forgot some of us have  _ private _ instruction now,” she mocks. “What do you even do there?”  _

_ “Standing.” _

_ “What?” she splutters, “Don’t lie to me, Ksenia Petrovna!” Katya gives me a hard shove, pushing me off my spot on a spare punching bag. I tuck my head under and roll out of the fall like Master Petrovich taught us.  _

_ “Show off,” Katya mutters. I stick my tongue out in retaliation. _

_ “I’m not lying ,” I defend indignantly. “Soldat makes me stand in different ways, then he touches me and I have to do the right movements.”  _

_ Katya raises her eyebrows in exasperation. “That sounds weird.” _

_ “He says everyone will have to learn it soon.” I tell her. “And it will be different once I have learnt the basics.”  _

_ Katya takes another bite of the roll, then throws the last piece back at me. I snatch it out the air and quickly shove it in my mouth in case she tries to take it back. We sit in silence for a while. I stretch my legs out in front of me, flexing then pointing my toes. A warm glow fills my chest as they skim the floor. Just yesterday, Master Yegerchov had been complimenting my arches. _

_ “Does it hurt, the standing?” Katya asks me abruptly. I grab my foot and pull it up behind my head, making sure to keep my back perfectly straight and contemplate her question. For the first time in years, I hear a slight uncertainty in her voice. It has been a while since I have been taken to learn something without her. _

_ “A bit. I think that means I’m doing it right though.” _

_ “If you’re not hurting, you’re dead.” Katya quotes seriously. I hum in agreement. _

_ “Did he do that?” She points to a hand shaped bruise on my hip. I nod. The ways Soldat touched me were not gentle, but it was important I did not resist him too much. Only a little, he said. _

_ “I don’t want to do that class,” Katya says decisively.  _

_ “You shouldn’t want anything,” I scold her, “We do what is required of us.” _

_ “Sure, sestra.” My eyes widen at her use of that forbidden term. “That explains why you have broken out of your dorm to come and train with me. Let’s spar now. You have to show me your roll kick.” _

* * *

“You have to show me how you do that scissor roll kick thingy,” Wanda groans from where she is sprawled on the mats. 

“If you got up I could show you,” I tease, tugging one of her legs. Wanda sighs dramatically, rolling over onto her front.

“I’m never sparring with you again,” she declares, “at least Steve lets me get some hits in out of sympathy.”

“Nat doesn’t,” I point out. “And you train with her everyday.”

“And look how bruised I am! That’s why you have to come and train with us, so she can beat you up instead.”

“You’re such a wonderful friend,” I say sarcastically, “offering me up as a sacrifice.”

“You have an actual chance of winning,” Wanda says defensively. I snort. It has been made perfectly clear my whole life that I am completely, hopelessly incompetent compared to the Black Widow. 

“Alright, I’m getting up,” Wanda announces. A few seconds later, she drags herself to her feet and takes up a defensive stance in front of me.    
As always. I wait for her to make the first move. She swings sloppily at me. I duck underneath her arm, spinning until I am behind her. Wanda huffs in frustration when she realises what I have done. I wave at her, laughing as her face contorts with annoyance. 

She lunges again at me, this time sweeping one leg across the floor to try and knock out my feet, then trying to roundhouse kick me when I sidestep her. This is a better attempt, and I roll sideways to avoid being hit.

By her fifth attempt, her irritation has begun to make her messy. She goes for a right hook, so I grab her by the wrist and pull her close to me, using the movement to hook my foot around her leg and kick the back of her knees. She collapses on the ground, and I pin her down until she taps out.

“I think that makes it twenty two points to me,” I sing as I slide off her. Wanda throws me a dirty look, flipping the bird as she grabs her water bottle from the side of the ring. I grab my sweatshirt and tug it over my sports bra. Wanda is massaging her shoulder from where she landed on it. 

“You know,” I try, “it would be much easier if you just-”

“No.”

“Why? You should use all the advantages you have.”

“This is different.”    
I climb out of the ring and sit down on the bench beside her.

“How?”

“If I lost control, I could kill you.” 

“If I lost control, I would kill you,” I counter. I had already tried to kill Steve, the first time I ever sparred with him. The chance of me hurting Wanda seems much higher than the other way around. Still, she shakes her head insistently.

“It’s not the same. I could do it without even meaning to.” It stings to know that she thinks I would do it on purpose, but I force myself to let it go. I thought she understood. Understood that for as long as I can remember, I have been a secondary force in my own mind. But how could she? 

My nails have begun to dig into my palms, making deep indentations. I force myself to relax, and rest my hands on my thighs to stop myself doing it again. Wanda didn’t mean to hurt me. She doesn’t want to hurt me.

“I’m sorry. It’s not my business.”

Wanda sighs. “Steve wants me to practice my powers with him as well. Find out the full extent of their capabilities.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“I don’t know.” She pulls the sleeves of her shirt down over her palms, as if it will muffle the red tendrils that have begun to snake around her fingers. “It is not normal, like practicing with sparring or weapons. If I lose concentration for even a second, I could crush his skull.” 

I try not to marvel at the idea of being able to do that. To be all but invincible. To be valuable enough that you would never have to fight for your place. Wanda’s powers are still manifesting, swirling more densely and beginning to encase her like a shield. 

“Wanda?” I ask hesitantly. She doesn’t look up.

The logical part of my brain tells me to get out of here, find Cap or Natasha and let them deal with this. I am in no way equipped to help Wanda, I can’t even make it through the night without waking up screaming. And for all my reassurances, Wanda is right, her powers could kill me in an instant and I would be powerless to stop them. 

Slowly, I begin to back away. I am almost at the door when her head snaps up.

“Wait!” she pleads. Her eyes are frenzied, flashing red. “Please don’t leave me.”The bench we were sitting on is now suspended in the air, along with a punching bag and a set of guns. I have one hand on the door to the gym. But my feet won’t cooperate, gluing me to the spot. Wanda wouldn’t leave me. She would probably hold my hand, and I would let her, even as the touch grew from invasive to unbearable. She would whisper reassurances in broken Russian, and after it was all over, drag me off to watch some new comedy she found.

So I won’t leave her either. My resolve hardens. Cautiously, I weave through the tentacles of red towards where she has curled up in the corner. A weight flies towards my head, but I quickly dodge it. It smashes into the wall behind me, the plaster crumbling to the floor.

Eventually, I am in front of her. I crouch down, slowly reaching out. I flinch as I touch the first strand of red, but it doesn’t hurt me, instead it begins to encircle my hand as well, and then my entire body, until I am encased in the shield with her. 

Wanda still hasn’t looked up, or acknowledged my presence in any way.

“Wanda? Hey sestra,” I murmur. Nothing. “Um. Okay. Wanda, it’s Ksenia. We’re safe. We’re in the gym at the compound, we were just sparring.” My voice slides up an octave at the end. Shakily, I expel a breath. The bubble is like a vacuum, completely devoid of any noise other than my voice.

“I’m sorry for upsetting you. But, um, there’s nobody else here, so… I can leave if you want.” Wanda shakes her head minutely. It is the first reaction I have gotten, so I press on.

“Okay, I won’t leave, sestra, yeah?” Gently, I reach out and touch her shoulder. Suddenly, my hand is in a vice like grip. The red is no longer tendrils, but ropes, coiling around my arms, pulling me in…

“I win!” Pietro brags from atop his podium of the fountain in the square, “Again!”

Wanda skids to a stop behind him, panting heavily.

“That’s not fair,” she pouts, “You always win.” Pietro only laughs in reply, jumping down and pulling Wanda’s braid. He dashes off before she can retaliate.

Wanda sprints after him, weaving through the crowd. They appear to be in some sort of market place. Stalls line either side of the street, with people milling about, chatting to the owners, or examining items. A few people are hurrying through the crowd, clutching briefcases or purses close to their bodies and eyeing the stalls disdainfully.

Wanda stops, scanning the faces for Pietro, who has pulled ahead of her. A flash of his blue jacket catches her eye, and she takes off again. 

She is steadily gaining ground on him, no doubt imagining what he will say when she catches him, when she collides headlong with one of the suited men.

“Get away from me, you little wretch!” he spits, shoving her hard. Wanda stumbles backwards, crashing into another person, who cusses at her before pushing her away.

“What, were you trying to steal my bag?” the man sneers, waving his briefcase in her face. “Thought you’d take the money and run? Give it to your mother so she can waste it on drugs, or,” he pauses to suck in the spittle frothing at his lips “or pregnancy tests?” 

Wanda’s lip is trembling, confusion evident on her face. She tries to back away, but the man grabs her roughly by the arm.

“Not so fast you little bitch,” he sneers. “Where do you think you’re- fuck!”

Suddenly, he is keeling over in pain, clutching his temple. Pietro stands behind him, with a stick raised in the air. His eyes are wide with panic as he takes in the man still writhing on the floor, but he wastes no time in grabbing Wanda’s hand and pulling her away.

“Come on!” he urges. He drags her through the crowd, not stopping until they collapse on the steps of an apartment building. Wanda is grey with shock, but Pietro is still bouncing with adrenaline.

“Did you see me?” he beams. “That man had you, and I whacked him with the stick, and then he fell on the ground! Just like that!” 

Wanda nods weakly, massaging a stitch. Pietro flings himself back on the steps, sprawled out like a starfish.

“He didn’t see that coming,” he sighs contentedly.

A roaring starts up in my ears, and red begins to burn the edge of my vision again, but this time, it doesn’t curl like smoke. Instead, it drips like blood, hot and sticky, and suffocating, it swamps me, dripping down my face until it obscures my vision completely.

* * *

I am standing in a line with the other girls in my class, watching a demonstration. I am eight years old, and there are still thirteen of us left. Katya stands next to me, watching diligently, but I can tell she is not concentrating. She is probably running through the choreography we learnt in our last ballet class, and will be rehearsing in our next lesson. I am looking forward to getting out of my tunic; the air in the basement is damp and putrefying, causing my curls to spring out of my braid. I will have to try and redo it before ballet, or I risk having my nails ripped out for not being presentable.

I snap my focus back to the lesson at hand. Master Petrovich says a girl who cannot hold her focus is nothing more than an animal, only good for slaughter. Master Ivanov is careful in instructing us, going through each step of the procedure delicately and in great detail. I watch intensely, memorising the exact angle at which he holds his knife, and the pattern he tells us is most effective. I allow his voice to wash over me.

“Classical torture girls, is most effective on the poorly or untrained mark. It is easy to resist if you have mental strength, but otherwise is almost unparalleled in its results. Why?”

Ekaterina, always the first to volunteer, raises her hand. “Because the expectation and preconception of the pain of the procedure adds to the marks suffering, Master.”

“Very good. Now this particular technique has to be carried out very carefully. If you hit an artery, or cut too deep, the mark could bleed out before you are finished. It is all about control. Who would like to try?” He surveys us, eyes flickering over each girl, until they land on me.

“Ksenia?”

I cross the room to where he stands, taking measured, controlled steps. I do not let my posture falter as I take the knife from his hand and take my place. It is Maria’s turn on the table this week. She is good, never crying out like some of the others. However, I see her shoulders twitch as I place the blade of the knife on them. She is nervous. Master Ivanov nods at me, and I begin.

I press the tip gently into the skin, dragging it down to where a nerve lies, where I push a bit deeper. I retract the knife and repeat the move, until she has six identical gashes. Then, I move down to the backs of her knees.

“Remember, do not make the cuts too short,” Ivanov warns me. I place the tip of the knife on the skin, and pull it across. I do not use the blade, but the point, like a dagger. I retrace my steps, pushing a bit deeper. Maria’s foot twitches, and I feel a glow of pride in my chest. I am doing it right. I go again, until I feel the resistance of the cartilage. That means I have gone deep enough. I start a new cut, at the beginning of the thigh, this time slicing quickly so she does not have the chance to get used to the pain. A gasp escapes, and I smile in satisfaction. My hands are now slippery with blood, but I do not dare clean them on my uniform, so I wipe them on her skin. My stronger grip on the knife allows me to begin the next stage, carving. I already know what I am going to draw. I begin on the sole of her foot, carving the elaborate spiral of its body up her calves, until I reach its head on her back. I add beady eyes, then fangs, and a forked tongue. It is a perfect viper, curling up her leg.

“Enough.” Master Petrovich’s voice silky rings out. Immediately, I step away. “You are done for this lesson, Ksenia. You may go and clean yourself up.” 

Panic blooms in my chest. Did I do something wrong? I thought I had followed his instructions exactly. I catch Katya’s eye, and she stares back, just as clueless as me. Numbly, I leave the room, waiting until I am out of sight before breaking into a sprint. I collapse on my bed when I reach the dormitory. The serenity and focus I had felt when I was performing on Maria has been replaced with a pit of dread. I do not know what I have done to upset Ivanov, which is almost as bad as having upset him. I cannot make it right, prove to him my worth if I do not know my mistakes. I undress robotically, washing the blood from my hands and face at the basin in the corner. I rebraid my hair before pulling on my ballet uniform. There are still twenty minutes left before my next class, but the anxiety pulsing through my veins makes it impossible to sit still. I rest my hand on the headboard of my bed like it is a barre, and get into first position. I kick my leg into a grande battement. Three to the front, three to the side, three to the back, then switch legs. I push through my entire body, pointing my toes until they cramp, but not allowing my muscles to tense. A dancer’s body must be soft and beautiful, powerful, but unassuming.

“Miss Antonova.” I start. Master Petrovich stands in the doorway. I jump to attention.

“Master Petrovich.” I curtsy. He must have been sent by Ivanov. Things are much worse than I feared if he is the one to implement my punishment. 

“I have heard what happened from Master Ivanov.” I keep my face blank. No nerves.

“I saw the work myself, in fact.” He pauses, walking across the room until he towers in front of me. “It was most impressive.” 

My heart stops. “You have the makings of an exceptional tool for the Red Room. Come with me, malen’kaya zmeya.”

* * *

I suck in a breath. It cannot come fast enough, and is followed by another ragged gasp. Blue spots hover in front of my eyes. My head is pounding. I look around, trying to get my bearings. I am in the gym, at the Avenger’s compound. How can that be, I was just in the Red Room? Equipment lies haphazardly across the floor. For a second, I cannot figure out why, until everything comes flooding back to me.  _ Wanda. _ I whip around. She is huddled into the wall, breaths rattling in her chest. Her powers have died down. Only her eyes are glowing now, but they are not present, darting around the room. I edge towards her.

“Wanda?” I call out to her. Her eyes lock onto mine, but there is something different. Something is wrong.

“Are you okay?” She doesn’t answer. She is still tracking my every movement, as though I might lash out and bite her. I reach out to touch her, and she flinches violently away. Fear flashes through her eyes. 

Understanding hits me like a brick wall. I was with her and Pietro. She saw everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooF!! Cliff hanger...  
> hang in there for the update ;)


	11. Natasha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!  
> Hope you're all doing well.   
> Sorry for the super irregular updates. Unfortunately, it will probably be like this for a while, as life is super crazy and I can't stick to a regular writing schedule. Just know, I definitely have not given up on this work, in fact, I have started working on a prequel as well.  
> Hope you all enjoy!  
> TW: implied rape, accidental SH  
> Please leave comments ;)

The cool water cascades down my back. It pools around my feet a dirty brown colour, blood, grime and mud swirling together. Tentatively, I run the water over the gash on my back, hissing as the blood begins to run anew. That, combined with two broken ribs and my still healing gunshot wound, is enough to make getting the remaining debris and clumps of blood out of my hair a drawn out ordeal.

Three washes later, the water finally runs clear as I wring it out. I go over to the full length mirror in my closet to survey the damage.

There are two yellowing hand-shaped bruises on my thighs, the purple swelling around my ribs and still bleeding gash on my back, but other than that, I am relatively unharmed. I was careful to try and protect my face as much as possible. The resulting scrapes and bruising would have been hard to explain away. 

I grab the first aid kit from under my washbasin. After taping my ribs and putting clean gauze on my bullet wound, I turn to address the stab wound. I twist around, trying to get a clear view of it, but it is slightly too high for me to see. I can feel the blood dripping down my back, and judging by that alone, it probably needs stitches. I feel up and down the length of my shoulder, trying to gauge where to start. Eventually, I find the critical spot. I strain, bending my elbow to the point where it is practically dislocated, but I can’t angle the needle to sew it shut properly. 

Sighing in frustration, I manage to cover it with an adhesive bandage, but even that was nearly impossible, and will not do much to stem the flow of blood.

I pull a black sweater on, dragging my hair into a bun. Hopefully, the dark colours will hide the bloodstains if the wound doesn’t close. If anyone asks about the dark circles under my eyes, I will tell them I haven’t been sleeping well. I wouldn’t even be lying, really.

I stroll out into the kitchen, forcing myself to keep my posture relaxed, natural. The walk of someone who has just woken up, not someone who has just returned from Lithuania. Wanda is already at the island, shielded by a box of cheerios.

“Good morning.”

I am greeted with a curt wave. I frown. It is very uncharacteristic for the usually sunny person she has become over the past few months. She is still reserved, passive, but I thought she had begun to trust me. My heart sinks slightly as I realise this must have been a fallacy I persuaded myself into believing. 

“Natasha?” Wanda has moved, and is now standing by the coffee maker. She looks at me expectantly. “I asked if you wanted coffee.”

“Oh. Yes, please.” I take the proffered mug. It is the one I painted last year with Laura and the kids. Sitting down at the counter, I trace the edge of the design. On one side is my precise drawing, my Black Widow hourglass with Clint’s arrow through it. Lila had quickly grown frustrated by my lack of creative flair, and had taken control of design production. On the other is a crude sketch of me sitting with Lila and Cooper, reading a book on the couch. Cooper’s head hangs at a precarious angle, while mine is far too small for the massive hands gripping the book.

Laura had tried to rescue the mug, adding artistic flowers winding around the handle. The end result was a chaotic mess, like our family, as Clint had said, before I hit him for being sentimental and making me cry.

Wanda has resumed her position behind the Cheerios. She scrolls listlessly through her phone, hair obscuring her face. Once or twice, her fingers twitch, as if about to type a message, but each time, she seems to check herself and slump further into her seat. 

Suddenly, I realise I have not seen Ksenia this morning, more unusual than Wanda’s sullen mood, though I suspect the two are intertwined. Like me, she has yet to break free from the internal clock installed by the Red Room. It is more likely that Tony will be up before ten than Ksenia being up later than seven. It is currently eight thirty.

“Wanda? Have you seen Ksenia this morning?”

“No,” she says forcibly. I am taken aback by the harshness of her tone.

“Do you know where she is?”

“Why would I? It’s not like she would tell me.” Wanda snaps. She drops her spoon with a clatter and marches from the room. My heart sinks. I feel a twinge of guilt for leaving, not being there for them, but fades quickly. I was protecting her, them.

“Friday, where is Ksenia?”

“Miss Antonova has been in the studio since 5 PM last night.”

I suppress a groan, massaging my temples. When I reach for the coffee pot, I feel my sweater cling to my back. The blood has seeped through the bandage. I deeply regret not going straight to bed upon my return and sleeping for the next year. 

“Fri, what is Ksenia doi-”

“Natasha.”

Clint and Steve march into the kitchen, wearing identical expressions. Fury mixed with concern. Shit. It would appear that I have been made. Slowly, I lean back into my chair, slipping into an easy, relaxed smirk.

“Good morning to you too, Clint.”

“Don’t even try, Nat,” he warns. I play dumb, despite knowing it’s hopeless. Anything to avoid the inevitable confrontation.

“What’s ruffled your feathers, Hawkeye?” He glowers at me.

“Natasha.” It’s Steve who speaks now, addressing me with his patented Captain America tone. It’s almost amusing. We have known each other for five years and he somehow thinks I have not gained immunity to be moral coded. 

“Where have you been? We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The twinge of guilt returns, looking at the concern etched on their faces, but this time, it is quickly smothered by annoyance. I don’t have time for this. I am not their child.

“I wasn’t aware you needed to know my exact location at all times,” I say icily. I take a sip of my coffee, staring them down. Predictably, Steve breaks first, but Clint is undeterred.

“Don’t bullshit with us, Natasha,” he growls.

“Fine. Something came up. Contact had a lead, needed to be followed through.”

“You’re not clear for the field,Tash!” Clint hisses in exasperation. “For God’s sake, you were shot three weeks ago.”

“Exactly. I should be healed by now.” I turn back to my coffee. It is a face saving maneuver, to hide the trembling in my hands. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Steve clearly doesn’t get the hint, rounding on me from the other side of the island.

“We’re not going to do this all day, Natasha. Where were you?” 

I flinch slightly at the harshness in his tone, and resist a growing need to apologize. You don’t answer to him, Natasha, I scold myself. He is not in control. 

“The mission required my particular skill set,” I reply delicately. Please don’t make me spell it out. 

“But-”

“I’m not talking about this anymore.” I finally snap. “I will upload the intel I found later.” I push Clint’s placating hand off my forearm, abandoning my coffee on the counter.

* * *

I pace my bedroom, dragging my fingers through my hair. I was so close, so close to them not realising. Stupid, overprotective Clint, probably checking on me in the night. I am not his eight year old daughter, I am supposed to be his best friend. He should trust me.

I flop down on my bed, massaging my bullet wound. There is new bruising around the entry site. Sighing, I reach for the numbing cream on my nightstand and begin to apply a sheen over the purpled skin. The anger begins to ebb from my mind. As the adrenaline of the argument fades, exhaustion begins to overwhelm me.

I close my eyes, massaging my temple as I try to extricate the images of my latest mission and bury them in the deep reaches of my mind. It was worse than usual. The faster I can compartmentalize, the better.

Flashes begin to surface, faces from old missions mixing with the recent. Marks blending together in my mind, into one faceless, leering being. Moaning, sweat, knives slicing sharply. Being slammed into the bedpost. Someone ripping away what little remains of my dress. I can smell the stank alcohol on his breath as he runs a finger between my breasts. 

I killed them all. I always kill them all, I always succeed. The Black Widow. That is what I am; it is a fitting metaphor. But this time, there was a woman watching, another captive. I set her free afterwards. She will not have made it, a snide voice whispers. I should have stayed, helped her. But my brain was cloudy, I think I had been drugged. I had to stop myself from eliminating her along with the others. She was an unwanted variable. 

No. That was in the Red Room. She was a civilian. Saving a civilian life is always the priority.

I groan, smacking my head against the headboard of my bed. I did bad, I should have helped her.

Blood dripped onto the keyboard as I typed. I cut off the leader’s hand, to use his fingerprint access. The bright lights of the screen danced in front of me, flashing too quickly to discern. 

I turn the flash drive over in my hands. Bloody fingerprints smudge the metal. The woman’s face flashes in front of me. She had scars around her wrists from being chained to the bed. I hadn’t even been able to meet her eyes as I undid the shackles and told her to run. Her face had been full of disgust, fear. She had seen the true Black Widow, not the fak, heroic one the Avengers advertise to the world. She saw me, and was disgusted. I would be too.

* * *

A knock on the door pulls me from my thoughts.

“Nat?” 

“Come in,”

Clint sits down on the edge of my bed. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together nervously.

“I’m sorry. You’re an adult, you can make your own bad decisions.”

“In hindsight, a note may not have been a bad idea,” I acquiesce.

“Is that the intel?” he points at the drive in my hands. I nod. I drop it into his hands, allowing him to examine it.

“Shit, Nat, you’re bleeding!”

“What? Oh, yeah, I forgot.”

“Tash, you can’t just forget-”

“Clint, give me a break,” I plead, lying back down. “Will you stitch it for me?”

He fetches the suturing kit, and I roll over onto my front. There is a dark stain on my white coverlet.

“Nat this is pretty deep.” I hum in agreement, too tired to respond further. An awkward stretches out. I can tell Clint is building up the courage to continue our earlier conversation.

“Jesus, Clint, just spit it out.”

“Yeah, sorry,” he laughs nervously, “um, I just want you to know that I’m not going to pry, but if you don’t want to tell us, but if you ever need backup, I’m here.”

I nod in thanks. “I was tracking the Red Room,” I admit. The confession reverberates around the silent room.

“I found the main trafficking ring supplying the new recruits,” the word is acidic in my mouth.

“You think the drive will have a lead to finding their new location?”

“Their location, their associates, how to contact them. Something, anything. I don’t know.” Clint finishes wrapping the wound. I sit up next to him, bumping his shoulder.

“It has been too long. Ksenia being here has made us even more of a target than we were before.”

There is a soft gasp, followed by a gentle scuffling sound. I whip around. A mane of curls disappears around the corner.

“Ksenia?”

She is not in her room, or the training room, or the studio. Clint checks the records room, the conference room, the kitchen. He jogs into my office, shaking his head. I clench my fists. 

“Miss Antonova left the Compound eight minutes ago,” Friday informs us. “She did not take any vehicles, and left through the East entrance.”

I take a shaky breath, nodding.

“Nat,” Clint grabs my hand, “you can’t go and look for her. You’re injured, and exhausted.”

“Watch me,” I snap, snatching my hand back. I ignore him as he tails me down the hall. 

“We should call the team together, coordinate. She can’t have gone far,” he tries to reason. He is wrong. She could easily be more than a mile away by now. This is all my fault. I have to find her.

* * *

My nails slice into my already shredded palms. Blood drips down my fingers, but the pain refocusses my mind. The sun is beginning to sink below the treetops. It will be easier for her to be taken after dark, and harder to ID the kidnappers if they were caught on camera. 

I come to the edge of the forest. The fields sprawl out around me. I scan them desperately.    
She has not left any trails, footprints to follow, and hasn’t been spotted on any security cameras across the globe, so I am relying solely on her Red Room training. Trying to outwit another Agent. They would have told her to avoid the roads, to stay undercover for as long as possible. I ignore the possibility that she has commandeered a car, and has gone to New York. She must have known that would be the first place we would look. If it were me, I would hide out overnight, collect my thoughts, then try to reach civilization tomorrow.

I stumble down the slope. My phone buzzes in my pocket. It is Clint, again. I have been ignoring his attempts to talk me down. If she is nearby, she will spook when the others arrive.

I scan the fields again. A slight shadow in the corner catches my eye. My heart swells with hope, even though it is probably only a fox. I skid to a stop. My eyes dart around feverishly. I strain my ears for any sound she might be making. Nothing.

Silence stretches out into oblivion. 

“Ksenia?” I call out, in a last, desperate attempt. “I don’t know if you can hear me, you probably can’t.” A delirious laugh escapes me. “I’m talking to myself, in a field. I’m definitely crazy. But just in case” I take a deep breath, “I want you to know that whatever you heard on the Compound, you’re not a danger to us. You can run, if you want, but I’m going to keep looking for you, to bring you home.” 

I break off, looking around. The field is perfectly still.    
There is a quiet sob, almost discernable. But it is enough. I turn in the direction it came from. There is a slight movement under one of the hedges.

Slowly, I walk over.

“Ksenia?” I call again, more softly. I can hear her breaths now, quick and ragged. I crouch down. She curled up under the shrubbery. She has one hand clamped in her mouth, to try and stifle her sobs, and clutches a gun in the other.

“Hey, it’s okay.” I sit down beside the bush. “It’s just me. You’re safe. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I hurt you,” she mutters. It is unclear whether she is talking to me or herself.

“You haven’t,” I insist, “you could never.”

I wait patiently. Her body is racked with silent sobs. She keeps her gun pointed firmly at my head. We stay like that for nearly an hour. The only noise is the quiet shuddering of her breaths.

Hesitantly, she uncurls from her ball, rolling out from under the hedge. Her eyes are crimson and swollen from crying, but she shakes from the cold. I take off my jacket, sliding it across to her. She takes it suspiciously, examining it thoroughly before putting it on.

* * *

“The stars are different here.” Ksenia’s voice is so low, I almost don’t hear her. 

“You could see them at the facility, in Russia. We watched them all night once. Me and my sister.”

“I have a sister too.” I am surprised by my own openness. “Yelena. We were going to live together by the sea.”

“What happened to her?”

“I don’t know. We fell out a few years ago. She could be anywhere.”

Silence washes over us once again.

“Did you ever learn the names of the stars?” I ask. Ksenia shakes her head.

“That one’s Orion’s Belt,” I point, “There is Sirius.” I look over to where she lies. The redness has faded from her face. She looks almost serene.

“My little star.” The endearment slips out before I can think about it. But I find I do not want to take it back; it feels surprisingly natural.

“Please come home.”


	12. Ksenia POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! A very happy Christmas to anyone who is celebrating!! If not, hope you're having a great day, and enjoying what is probably still your winter break.  
> Thank you to everyone who has subscribed/commented on this work, it makes me so happyyyy:)  
> TW: self harm  
> pls enjoy, and leave me your thoughts in the comments!

We step into the kitchen, the warm air causing needles to prickle over my icy hands. In the moonlight, it looks peaceful, normal. It contrasts so starkly to the anxiety still thrumming in my veins that it gives me whiplash. I don’t belong here; it is too nice. I clench my fists to try and distract myself from the waves of nausea threatening to overwhelm me. Despite the central heating, my body is wracked with shivers. I bury deeper into Natasha’s jacket, clutching my gun so tightly my knuckles turn white. I think it is actually Natasha’s, I stole it from the armoury in my first week. I trace over her initials, N.R., engraved into the bottom. It seems like a liability to have initials on a gun. If it was found, someone could trace it back to you.

Something warm is placed in my hands. I squeeze it and feel the soft pop of styrofoam balls. I am holding the beanbag cushion. Natasha guides me to a stool at the island, crossing over to the kettle, filling two mugs with tea.

“Nat.”

I jump at the noise, fumbling with the beanbag. Hawkeye stands in the doorway. Panic begins to bloom across the palms of my hands, prickling up to my wrists. I am compromised, I have been running for almost eight hours and have not eaten since yesterday. Natasha’s gun only has five bullets in it, I checked earlier. I can’t feel any knives on my body. I had gone to Natasha’s room straight from the studio, and am still only in my sports bra and leggings. 

In my weakened state, I doubt I could take him on, and protect Natasha if I need to. He cannot be mad at her, she should have let me go.

“You’re back.” I can hear the underlying question, accusation in his tone.

“It is all my fault,” I blurt out.

Both of their heads turn to me. I resist the urge to hunch over, hide from their stares, and sit tall. Unbreakable.

“Ksenia,” Natasha breaks in gently, “maybe you should go to bed. Clint and I just need to talk for a minute.”

I shake my head obstinately. I am not a child, she cannot fool me.   
“No. I will not let you take punishment for me.”

“Nobody is going to be punished,” Clint says lowly. “I would never hurt Natasha, you know that, right?”

I cock my eyebrow at him, unimpressed. I have heard that before. Never in the Red Room though, there were no pretences there. I probably would have been the one to implement the punishment.

“Little Star, I am safe. You can rest.” Reluctantly, I nod, casting a last warning glance at Hawkeye before I leave.

* * *

Like the kitchen, my bedroom is filled with items from a life that was never really mine, that seems more alien than ever now. A package that finally arrived two days ago, from a thrift store Wanda helped me find online. Half finished school work is piled in the corner of my desk. Brave New World lies on my bed. I pull clean pajamas from my dresser and lock the door to my bathroom. The shower runs, scalding hot. Twenty minutes later, my hands and feet are burning and crimson. After I get out of the shower, I retrieve my knife from under my pillow. In my haste yesterday, I had forgotten to punish myself for upsetting Wanda. The two other cuts on my leg have faded to scratches. I gently rest the blade on my thigh. The cool blade calms the itch that had been building across the skin. I slice quickly and efficiently, exactly as I had been taught. Blood rolls in beads, like tears. After five minutes, the flow stems. I wipe it away, pulling sweatpants over the top.

I lock my bedroom, then put a chair under the handle for good measure. The windows are reinforced, and shatter proof, but even so, I do not draw the drapes in case someone uses them as a hiding place. With the thick window ledge, they could wait for hours, and I would be none the wiser. Finally, I can slip under my icy sheets, wriggling around to warm them up. I slip my Natasha’s gun under the pillow. There is a knife strapped to the underside of the bed frame. I am safe, I am fine. My eyelids are heavy. It does not take long for sleep to drag me under.

* * *

I awake gasping, breaths juddering in my chest. My right wrist is bleeding, scratched raw.

“Shit.”

I grab gauze and antiseptic from the first aid kit. I was stupid to think I could go without them. It was naive to think that just because I was pretending to be different, moonlighting as a hero, that I would be beyond their control. The metal is cool and comforting as I slip it around my wrist. The click as it closes around the bedpost calms my pounding heart more than it should.

* * *

The first rays of sun wake me, pouring through the window as the drapes sit uselessly to the side. I sit up, only to be jerked back to by the handcuffs. Swearing, I reach for the key while rubbing the spot where my head collided with the bedpost. 

My wrist cracks as I rotate it, feeling slowly reentering my fingers. Warily, I peel back the bandages on my wrist. Luckily, they are only speckled with blood, and looking down, I see that the scratches have scabbed over. Now, there is only the usual chafing from the cuffs.

I roll over to reach my phone. It is only 5:15. In the Red Room, I would already be up, running laps around the courtyard. Before, Katya and I would race each other, or sign and whisper discreetly when the guards weren’t looking. After, I would barely notice my fingers turn blue from the cold, and the twinge of my muscles, still sore from the day before.

I scroll through my notifications. It does not take long; the only message I have received is from O2, telling me that my monthly bill is ready. I feel an unexpected twinge of sadness. A small part of me was hoping Wanda might have messaged me but when I check our DMs, it says she has not been active for two days. I drop my phone back onto the floor and roll over, hugging my pillow to my chest and burrowing further under my coverlet.

“It is 11:30.” Natasha stands over my bed, arms crossed.

“It is.” I don’t know what she wants me to say to this. We can both tell time.

“Why are you still in bed?”

“I didn’t want to get up.”

“You are wallowing.” The statement is harsh, cutting. I have never heard Natasha be so brutal, except perhaps with Stark or Cap. This is exactly what Wanda said- no. Don’t think about her, that. Emotions are a liability.

“I am sorry, I will get up, train,” I apologize, already reaching for my gym bag.

“No.”

“No?” Why is she being confusing this morning? This is a drastic change from her usual behaviour. Master Ivanov would be telling me to stay on my guard, not to trust a break in the pattern. But I cannot bring myself to care. If she has come to tell me to leave, it is what I was trying to do anyway.

“We are going on a field trip. Meet me in the garage in half an hour.”

By the time I have showered and got dressed, I am so tired that I am ready to go back to bed. It is ridiculous, I should be able to go days without sleep.

I pick at the sleeve of my shirt. It is the new one I ordered; Wanda helped me choose it after I spent two hours dithering between three practically identical choices. I hug the wall as I drag myself down to the garage, the space beside me an empty void without her. As I pass her room, I can hear muffled strains of Cavetown playing through her walls. My heart aches.

I arrive in the garage, already feeling my energy depleting, but force my face to relax into a blank mask, not giving it away. I cannot let anyone see.

“Ready to go?”

Natasha is waiting in her Corvette. I nod, climbing reluctantly into the passenger seat.

We drive in silence, Natasha staring resolutely ahead. I rest my head against the cold glass of the window, wishing I was back in my room. The iron gray sky is oddly in tune with my mood. It is endless, unforgiving, and accompanied by a half hearted but biting wind that whistles across the bonnet periodically. 

I think of Wanda, back at the Compound, maybe sparring with Cap, or attempting some elaborate baking project that will end with batter all over the kitchen. She is definitely not thinking about me, has probably forgotten about me completely. It would not be the first time, and I would deserve it if she had. I always end up alone.

* * *

Natasha pulls into the parking lot of a small cafe. It is inconspicuous, if you didn’t know it was there, you would have mistaken it for a renovated barn.    
Inside, booths line the walls. The coldness of the metallic clouds outside is combated by wicker lamps hanging from the roof, casting a warm glow throughout the room.

Natasha greets the woman behind the counter by name, and she leads us to a booth in the corner. I slide onto the seat, pressing myself into the corner, close to the window. There are only two other occupied booths: a mother and daughter, and two old ladies with a pot of tea between them. It is obvious why Natasha likes it here, it is just loud enough to give privacy but quiet enough that it is easy to keep track of everyone. I relax back into my seat. 

“It is nice here.” Natasha nods absentmindedly in agreement, flicking through the menu.

“Clint and I found it when we first moved in.”

We lapse into silence. Natasha orders a pot of tea and brownies. She fiddles with her sleeve. She is uncomfortable. A hundred possibilities flash through my mind, none of them good.

“We need to talk about you running away.” Cutting right to the chase, then. I hang my head.

“It was disobedient, disloyal. I know,” I mutter. “What is my punishment to be?”

“Excuse me?” Natasha stares at me incredulously over the rim of her mug.

“My punishment. For running away. I would prefer to know now.” An emotion flashes across her face so quickly I almost miss it. It is nearly indiscernible, but looks almost like disappointment, or sadness. 

“You aren’t going to be punished,” Natasha begins carefully. Her eyes search my face, for what, I don’t know, but I wipe it of any confusion or anxiety that might have eked its way onto my features. “Running was irresponsible, sure. But we’re not going to hurt you. I don’t want that to be something you ever worry about, okay? We’d never do that.”

I think this is supposed to reassure me, but it only fuels the stress pooling in my stomach. How am I meant to be kept in line if I am not punished? It is the same as Clint telling me I can no longer be trained for honeypots. They do not even expect me to discipline myself, punish myself. But I need it. Without the certainty, the control, the knowledge that failure will lead to punishment, I will float away, untethered. There will be nothing to keep me from becoming sloppy, useless, or, worse, nothing to stop me from hurting someone else. And I promised that would not happen.

“Little Star?” I start, unused to the nickname. Master Petrovich used to call me his diamond, his most prized possession. The one who withstood the pressure, and emerged his most valuable asset. 

Natasha pushes half the brownie towards me, gesturing for me to eat. I regard with suspicion.. It looks almost tar like, and slightly raw. Hesitantly, I bite a bit off the end of the corner. The flavour explodes across my tastebuds. I can barely hide my shock, eliciting a smirk from Natasha. With as much self restraint as I can muster, I take another bite. I cannot believe that Wanda deprived me of this to make gingerbread. I will have to tell her - no. I will not. Don’t go there, Ksenia.

“I spoke to Wanda this morning.” Sometimes I wonder if Natasha is the telepath. “She seemed pretty upset.” I shrug noncommittally. “She asked about you.”

I look up, surprised. “Really?”

“Of course.” I hadn’t thought she would care, after the gym. She saw the disgusting things I have done, habitually, all my life. There is no way she would still want to associate with me.

“Whatever happened between you two while I was gone, I am sure it was far from a dealbreaker.”

I mull this over for a second, before filing it for later. I pounce upon the opportunity she has just presented. 

“You were tracking the Red Room.” Finally, she has given me an opening. The main reason I agreed to come back. If Natasha is surprised by my change of topic, she doesn’t show it.

“Yes. We thought they disbanded nearly ten years ago. Clearly, we were wrong.”

“I would like to assist in the search.”

“Ksenia, I-”

“Please, hear me out. Ivan Petrovich runs it now, not Madame B. It operates differently, and I know how it works. The locations of the bases, who their contacts are.”

“We would use any intel you gave us.”

“I want to be a part of the mission.”

“No.”

“Natasha,” I protest.

“It is much too dangerous.”

“I lived there for eleven years, I think I could survive a couple of hours,” I huff.    
“I am not saying I think you’re incapable. But you have only been gone a few months-”

“Are you saying I’ll betray you?” I accuse. I have never been so openly defiant to a superior. It is almost exhilarating. 

“No,” Natasha counters. “I’m saying it might not be your choice. They built us to have the same weaknesses, that they can control. I have had years to override mine. You haven’t.”

“They also built us to have the same strengths. They said it themselves. Only a Red Room agent is supposed to be able to take down another graduate. I know better than the others where the weaknesses are. I even know most of the girls at the facility.”

“You can help plan the mission,” Natasha says with finality. Her glare leaves no room for argument. I concede defeat, for now. I will try again closer to the time, when she can no longer deny my utility. Perhaps Cap will be easier to persuade.

“I just want to give you a break.” Natasha says quietly. “I want you to have a chance to live, without the pressure of being what everyone else needs, all the time.”

“Then what do you want from me?”

“I just want you, Little Star. I will keep telling you until you believe me.”


	13. Ksenia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter in honour of the first two episodes of Wandavision! I am beyond excited, the show looks so unique, I think they have done an amazing job.   
> We have reached 100 kudos!!! *party for one tonight. Thank you all so much!!!!  
> I hope you enjoy this chapter, please leave any comments you have :))

By the time we arrive back at the Compound, the sun has sunk under the horizon. The clouds are too thick for the moon’s light to penetrate, leaving the sky an emotionless, uniform charcoal. I am almost disappointed when we enter the gaze of the floodlights surrounding the compound. The harsh brightness bounces off the bonnet of Natasha’s car and all I want to do is crawl back into the cover provided by the darkness and hide.

Cap and Mr. Stark are waiting for us when we arrive in the lounge. 

“Nat,” Steve smiles tightly, “Ksenia. Did you have fun?” Natasha leads the way through the common area, and they both tail us tightly,as if afraid of letting us get too far ahead.

I look between the two of them, trying to work out why they are acting so strangely. Natasha crosses over to the kitchen.

“What’s up Rogers?” she asks impatiently. She pulls a loaf of bread from the cupboard. “You are both acting like someone’s died.” She retrieves a jar of peanut butter and unscrews it, slathering it over the bread.

“Want one?” Natasha brandishes the knife in my direction. I shake my head, hovering by the exit. She shrugs, hopping onto the counter and taking a bite of her sandwich. It is an obvious attempt to diffuse whatever is going on. Stark sighs, seemingly losing patience with the posturing.

“Natasha, we need to talk. Now.” He looks pointedly at me.

* * *

I crouch in the vents above Steve’s office. Eavesdropping had been the one vice all my years in the Red Room could not stamp out of me. I remember once, when I was ten, Katya and I had sat all night above Master Ivanov’s office, listening to his phone calls with the other masters. SHIELD’s files had just been dropped onto the internet, and the Red Room had suddenly become common knowledge, undoing the decades spent building covers across the world. 

The next week, we moved bases, after a crime ring kidnapped two girls from a younger class.

But this is different, I console myself, trying to appease the guilt of spying on my superiors. Deftly, I position myself for the optimal viewpoint of the office, keeping one eye on the vent in front of me. Natasha is talking loudly over Stark, arms crossed defensively.

“I can’t believe you are actually considering this.”

“It is the most reasonable option, Natasha,” Stark interjects. “You’ve said it yourself, she was literally made for this.”

“So was I. Don’t you think I’d be able to tell if she was faking it?”

Steve puts a calming hand on Natasha’s arm; she brushes him off angrily.

“Listen, we’re just looking at the facts. Ksenia has been here all of what- four months? She’s a liability, not to mention a known flight risk. By the way, did we ever even get to the bottom of where she took off to?”

“She was trying to protect-”

“It might not be a bad idea, Nat,” Steve says quietly. Natasha fixes him with a death glare. Even from my spot above them, I can feel the heat in her stare.

“Down Red, Jesus,” Tony rubs his hand across his brow. “All we’re suggesting is a tracker. If anything it’s a good thing. If Little Miss Deadly decides to do a bunk again, we’ll know where to find her.”

“Do you even hear yourselves? She is not a weapon for you to use at your convenience.” 

Except that is exactly what I am. 

“Natasha-”

“This is not a conversation anymore. Don’t bring this up again.” Natasha marches from the room, leaving Cap and Stark speechless in her wake. Under different circumstances, I would laugh at the dumbfounded expressions on their faces.

As it is, I am barely settled on my bed when my door is flung open by Natasha. I look up from my book, appropriately surprised by her sudden arrival.

“They’re wrong, you know.” She sits down at my desk, propping her feet up on my bed.

“Who?” Natasha raises her eyebrow. I sigh, admitting defeat.

“You’re good, but no offence, it was quite predictable.” I look away, ignoring the panic that she can read me so easily.

“They are right,” I admit. 

“They’re not, get that through your head now.”

“They are,” I insist. I do not understand why she is so opposed to the idea. It seems perfectly logical to me. I was astounded when they let me out of my cell within an hour of my arrival, the fact that they did not take measures to ensure my loyalty immediately was incomprehensible. And, from what I heard, Mr Stark’s device wouldn’t even hurt me. A part of me is disappointed. Natasha has abandoned her seat and is now pacing the length of my room. She is seething, practically spitting with rage.

“You are not their pet, or their creation or their tool-” I flinch slightly at her choice of words. My reaction catches her attention, much to my embarrassment, and she visibly untenses her muscles. She expels a long breath, sitting back down.

“I’m sorry.”

She is still clenching and unclenching her fists rhythmically, but the bite has gone from her voice. I nod, too scared to answer her. I have never seen her lose control of her emotions like that before. Usually, any expression she has is so minute that you miss it if you are not watching.

“You need to understand that it is a violation of your rights for them to do this. If I know Tony, the first thing he’s going to do tomorrow is try and convince you it’s for your own good.”

“Okay.” I don’t know whether I am agreeing with her or trying to appease her. I think I vaguely understand the sentiment, if it applied to anybody else. But I am too willful, too volatile not to be monitored, controlled. It keeps everyone safe; it keeps  _ me  _ safe. 

“Okay.” Natasha runs her fingers through her hair. “Okay,” she repeats, gathering herself and standing up. She gives her customary smirk as she leaves, but it does not have its usual confidence, and her retreat looks more like an animal bolting than anything else.

* * *

_ For the first time in months, I do not slip my cuffs after the first guard walks past. Katya makes no indication of movement from her bed across the room either, solidifying the growing resentment in my chest. I let out an almost inaudible huff, knowing that she will hear, wriggling around in my bed to warm up my sheets. _

_ I need to sleep. That is what the logical part of my brain tells me. Food, water and sleep. The essential components of survival. Given today’s events, I am unlikely to get two of them any time in the near future, so I must make the most of the only one that I have been granted. And yet, despite fourteen hours training, this is the most alive I have felt in years. The most emotion I think I have felt ever. It is exhilarating, freeing, but terrifying. Emotions are a weakness, that was proven today. They make you erratic, cloud your judgement and they left me spiralling, grasping for any semblance of control. _

_ I need to let it go. Let her go. She is a weakness, she is weakening me right now, occupying my thoughts when I should be sleeping. But flashes from the courtyard continue to play before my eyes. The girl Katya tried to save, she was only four years old. And I tried to stop her from intervening in the fight. I let her turn on me instead, tackling me to the ground, telling me I was heartless, disgusting. She couldn’t even look me in the eyes.  _ _   
_ _ I roll over yet again. My ribs twinge, but I had not managed to steal any tape for them.  _

_ Suddenly, there are heavy footsteps on the stairs. My head snaps around. That is not right. The night guard isn’t due for another twenty minutes, and never makes so much noise.  _

_ Master Ivanov marches into the dorm, grabbing the nearest girl by the wrist, and roughly yanking off her cuff. More guards pour into the room. Calloused fingers dig under the metal of my cuff, and a second later I feel the lock release. I pull it open, cracking my wrist as the feeling tingles back into my fingers.  _ _   
_ _ We stand to attention as Master Ivanov leads us through the hallways, past the other classes, still asleep, and through the entrance hall. We are ushered outside to where a cattle cart is waiting for us and jostle each other as we climb into the back. I come face to face with Katya, already settled on one of the benches. She averts her gaze. I turn around and sit next to Elena instead. _

_ I count the seconds that we drive for, partly to track how far we are from the facility, but mostly just to keep myself busy, and stop my eyes from straying back to Katya. She is not quite as subtle, shooting me accusing looks from her seat.  _

_ We are thrown out after an hour. Elena had fallen asleep during the journey, and is roughly tossed into a waiting snowdrift. She stands beside me in line, shaking under her pajamas, covered in dark splotches of melted snow. I clench my feet, curling up my toes to try and conserve heat. Our breath comes in swirls and puffs in front of us, clearly visible under the light of the moon. As soon as the last girl has climbed out, the cattle truck drives away, continuing along the road away from the Red Room. Collectively, we follow its progress until it disappears over the crest of a hill, until we can no longer hear the rumble of the engine. The only disturbance to the night is the sound of rasping breaths.  _

_ I stare at my feet. They have become waxy pale, the veins swelling under the skin and painting purple lines along them. If I do not start moving soon, it will become frostbite. _

_ It is obvious that nobody is coming for us. If we want to make it back we will have to find our way ourselves, and yet I cannot bring myself to be the first to go. _

_ Ana has no such qualms. She is the most competitive of us all, no doubt seeing this as a competition. She aims a kick at Zhanya, sending her to the ground. Shouts break out across the group. _

_ “We do not have permission to fight!” Galina cries, trying to pry them apart. Behind her, I spy Ekaterina using the commotion to slip under the hedge and run into the nearby forest.  _

_ Ana catches Galina’s nose, and the crack of the bone resonates across the desolate landscape. Blood drips into the snow. This is quickly escalating, it is time for me to get out of here. I follow Ekaterina under the hedge. I can see her footprints imprinted in the snow. Once the others leave, they will all follow her trail. Instead, I hug the hedgerow, following it along the road. Any disturbances to the snow could be mistaken for some small animal, hopefully. After about a mile, the forest comes to meet the road. I am exposed in the open, and will move faster through the trees. I slip in between the pines, still skirting the perimeter of the forest. _

* * *

_ My fingers are blue with cold, and my feet have become stiff and uncooperative. Regardless, I flex them before letting go of the branch I have a hold of and leaping to the next tree. A little snow is dislodged by the impact, but I console myself that it is much less conspicuous than the trail I would leave on the ground. I pause to catch my breath, pushing my hair out of my face.  _

_ Suddenly, a small scuffle catches my attention. There is an almost inaudible yelp of pain, but I recognise it immediately. Katya.  _

_ She is cornered. Zhanya stands over her, wielding a fallen tree branch like a staff. Katya tries to kick her feet from under her, but Zhanya is faster, landing a blow to Katya’s head. There is already congealed blood clumping parts of her pair together. Fresh blood begins to drip down her face. It is the blankest I have ever seen it, even after treatments. Katya always has a comeback, a wink and haughty smirk. Zhanya towers over Katya, revelling in her win. That will be her downfall. _

_ She lies dead in the snow. There is no blood, nothing to indicate she is anything more than asleep, aside from her staring eyes. I tear my own away, retreating into the cover of trees. Katya is still on the ground, but will be fine, and will not want me here. _

_ “Wait.” The syllable is not above a whisper, but it resonates in my head as if it was shouted. _

_ “I do not want to fight anymore,” I tell her, resigned. The rollercoaster of emotion I had felt earlier has diffused. I am numb. _

_ “Neither do I.” Katya has pulled herself up, and staggers towards me. It is painful to watch her progress. As soon as she is close to me, she latches onto my waist. I buckle slightly under her weight, although it cannot be more than 75 pounds, hoisting her up. _

_ “Ksenia-” _

_ “We should go.” I set her down on a stump, crossing to Zhanya’s body. I try not to look as I peel off her clothes. I put on her pants, knowing Katya will never accept the full outfit, and hand her the top. _

_ The moon is setting by the time we break free from the clutches of the forest. We found Galina’s body, propped up by a tree trunk, dead from exposure, and we now both had a full set of pajamas over our own. _

_ “I’d like to go to space.” _

_ “What?” I snort at the randomness of the statement. _

_ “Space. Look at the stars. I want to be close to them.” I think we are both in the early stages of hyperthermia, because Katya is never so random, and for some reason, I find her statement hilarious, and burst out laughing. _

_ “Ksenia, shut up! Don’t be mean.” _

_ “Sorry,” I weep with laughter, doubling over. _

_ “Someone will hear us.” I snap my mouth shut instantly.  _

_ We rejoin the road, trekking the last five miles back to the facility. _

_ “Are you still mad?” I regret the statement as soon as it leaves my lips. It sounds incredibly childish. The Masters would beat me if they knew I cared this much about something so trivial. _

_ “No.” Katya stops walking, looking me in the eye for the first time since the incident. “You were right. I made everything worse.” She picks at her nails. “She could have won. I made everything worse for her.” _

_ “It was not your fault.” I know that we are both thinking of the punishment the girl will have received, and my words feel empty. _

* * *

_ “Look, it is our star.” Katya points. I follow her finger, cracking half a smile. _

_ “That’s a completely different star. Our star was way over there,” I dispute. Katya raises an eyebrow in challenge. “Always so picky, sestra. This one is ours now.” _

* * *

I stand in front of the full length mirror in my room. I have definitely looked better. For the first time in months, I was not plagued with monsters. I dreamt of Katya, the night we trekked through the forest together. It is the first time I have thought of her, since- no, not now, Ksenia. You have a mission.

I step out into the kitchen. Natasha and Steve are having a glaring contest over the pot of coffee, and it is obvious who is winning. Anxiety bolts across my brain knowing that I am the source of their animosity, but I do not pause, only waving briefly in response to Natasha’s greeting. 

I stand outside her door. My feet are rooted in place, as I gather my courage. I knock.

“Come in.” The door swings open. Wanda sits in bed, a book in her lap. She glances up as I enter, and her eyes flash red. I force myself not to flinch, or step back, and walk further into the room.

“Ksenia. You’re back.”

“I have been back for two days.” She must have known this already.

“Cap told me,” she nods. The silence stretches out. I take a step forward.

“I would like to apologize for what happened in the gym. I was not helpful, and I am sorry for what you saw.” I am sorry that you saw what I am. I am sorry that I am disgusting. “If you would like, I will keep out of your way now.” 

My heart aches as I finish my speech. It was the only thing I could think to do, the only thing worse than us not talking anymore was not knowing what she wanted from me. At least now I will know. Wanda does not answer, does not even look up. I nod. That is an answer in itself. I start to leave.

“You didn’t tell me.”

“Pardon?” I turn around. To my shock, her eyes are glimmering with tears. 

“I thought you trusted me. You said,” her voice breaks, “you said you were trained to fight. What I saw, that was not fighting.”

“I am sorry you saw that?” This was not how I planned the conversation.

“No, you don't understand!” She is right. I cannot understand her reaction. She is upset that I did not tell her what I was? 

“If I tricked you, I’m sorry, I did not mean-”

“Ksenia, please just stop!” Her eyes flash red again. She pauses, taking a shuddering breath, seemingly collecting her thoughts.

“They hurt you. You didn’t say anything. I told you things, about what I have done, how I became like this. I never told anyone else. You said you were taken when you were young and trained to fight, not that they tortured you, made you-” she gestures wildly. 

“I do not understand.” The tears begin to well up in her eyes again. I stand helplessly in the centre of her room. I do not understand. 

“I am sorry?” I do not think that is the right response. 

“And I’ve been horrible,” Wanda sobs, burying her head in her knees. “I thought things, I didn’t know. Of course you don’t want to tell me, why would you? You don’t trust me.” She dissolves into a fresh round of tears. I do not think I have ever in my life seen somebody cry so much. I am at a complete loss of how to help her. Inadvertently, I have hurt her, yet again. I dig my nails into the cuts on my leg.

“I did not want you to hate me,” I confess. “I am sorry I hurt you.”

“I don’t hate you, I just-”

“I did not want to talk about it with anyone. I wanted to forget, pretend to be different. It was not you” I pause, steeling myself. “But, um, they did train us for things other than fighting. Language, interrogation,” I take a deep breath,” seduction. Torture. They hurt us to make us better.”

Keeping her head planted on her knees, Wanda shakes it violently. “It didn’t make you better. It was wrong.”

“If you’re not hurting, you’re dead. That was the second rule we learned.”

“What was the first?”

“We belong to them. We exist to serve the Red Room.” My hands are shaking. I do not want to talk about this anymore.

“I’m sorry, we won’t talk about it if you don’t want to.” Wanda is standing in front of me. When did she move? She was crying on her bed.

“Okay?” I nod. I let her lead me to sit on her bed. I run my finger along her comforter, feeling the velvety material under my fingers.

“I missed you, Ksenia.”

“I missed you too. Can we be friends again?” 

Wanda gives me a watery smile, still wiping tears off her face. “Always.”


End file.
